THE 

HUNTER  OF  THE  SHAGREEN, 

A  Descriptive  Poem. 


Cleveland : 
\V.  WILLIAMS. 
18S2. 


DUKE 
UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


1 


Those  under  whose  notice  these  lines  may  fall,  will  appre- 
hend that  they  are  from  the  hand  of  one  who  cherishes  a 
remembrance  of  the  grand  forest  which  covered  the  face  of 
the  country,  and  of  the  lives  and  times  of  the  pioneers  of  the 
Reserve.  Their  life  and  its  spirit  cannot  be  perpetuated  in 
history,  and  thus  far  have  found  scant  space  in  story  and 
song. 

Clevf:land,  Ohio,  August  i,  1882. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Vision        .         .         .         .         .  -       .  9 
PART  FIRST. 

THINGS  IN  THE  ROUGH. 

-  PAGE. 

L — The  Hunter       .          .          .          .  .10 

IL — The  Shagreen          ....  13 

in. — Indian  Spring     .           .          .           .  •  ^7 

IV. — Paul  Lynn   ...           .           .          ,  20 

V. — Winter  in  the  Woods     .          .          .  -27 

VI. — Paul's  Find  .....  32 

VII. — Nell's  Story        .           .           .          .  .42 

VIII. — The  Departure        ....  52 

PART  SECOND. 

IN  THE  HANDS  OF  THE  WORKERS. 

PAGE 

I. — In  the  Hands  of  the  Workers   .          .  -57 

II. — Time  and  Change   ....  61 

III.  — Spell  of  the  Forest         .          .          .  .66 

IV.  — Nell's  Find  .           .          .          .          .  71 
V. — John  Explains    .           .           .           .  -75 

VI. — The  Whip-poor-will's  Song            .           .  79 

VII.— The  Old  Hunter           .          .          .  .83 

VIII.— June  Days    .           .        _  .           .           .  88 

IX. — Alone      .          .          .          .          .  .92 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/hunterofshagreen01  ridd 


THE  HUXTER  OF  THE  SHAGREEX. 


VISION. 


Comes  a  vision  of  my  long  lost  childhood 

Across  the  furrows  of  the  buried  years ; 
Wide  waving  green,  a  wondrous  wildwood; 

And  the  cabin  near  its  shade  appears; 
And  sweet  there  rises  on  mv  listening  ears, 

The  plaming  voice  of  my  mother,  singing 
Low  murmurous  strains,  that  beguile  to  tears; 

And  the  laughter  of  my  sister  ringing 
From  that  near  forest,  where  the  limpid  stream, 
The  first  silver  thread  of  the  bright  Shagreen, 

Sparkles  o'er  its  sands  through  the  trees  away. 

My  brothers  on  its  banks  I  hear  at  play, 
I  breathe  the  fragrance  of  wild  balm  and  thyme, 

1  hear  the  hermit  thrush  as  in  that  time. 

That  wood  stream  itself,  hath  become  a  dream. 

Born  of  limpid  springs,  themselves  forest  born. 
Save  in  mem'ry,  it  doth  no  longer  gleam; 

Part  of  the  wood,  it  perished  with  its  charm. 
Yet  I  can  see  it  still,  a  shining  band, 
Around  a  sloping  cape  of  maples  grand. 
The  sweetest  bit  of  wild,  of  all  wood  land. 
That  a  sanctuary  was — a  retreat, 
Where  in  those  years  oft  strayed  my  boyish  feet; 
My  tender  nature  steeped  in  solitude, 
Did  there  imbibe  the  spirit  of  the  wood; 
Whose  lights  and  shadows  still  around  me  play. 
With  the  cherished  dreams  of  that  brighter  day; 
Which  o'er  this  page  sheds  something  of  its  ray. 

2  9. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


PART  FIRST. 

THINGS  IN  THE  ROUGH. 
I. 

THE  HUNTER. 

An  old  man  tall  and  gaunt, 

Of  visage  gray  and  grim, 
Gray  eyes  set  wide  and  deep. 

Of  giant  mold  and  limb — 
Strong  and  lithe  in  youth, 

His  childhood  reached  to  age: 
His  school  the  deep  greenwood. 

The  forest  leaf  his  page. 

Learned  in  all  wood  craft. 

Wise,  cunning  in  the  lore 
Taught  in  the  desert  wild, 

By  sky,  by  stream,  by  shore. 
More  cunning  than  the  red  fox. 

Knowing  more  than  red-man  art, 
Deep  and  grave  in  counsel. 

And  still  a  child  in  heait. 


THE  SHAGREEX. 


Beyond  the  farthest  march 

Of  the  westward  moving  host, 
Whose  wave  advanced,  retreated, 

Oft  broken,  never  lost. 
His  father,  his  mother, 

His  brothers,  one  by  one, 
In  the  great  wood  laid  down 

And  with  him  there  were  none. 

With  Sr.  Clair  he  battled 

Against  the  Indian  host, 
Where  girt  with  blood  and  fire 

He  fought  till  all  was  lost. 
His  rifle  at  the  Rapids, 

Spoke  sharpest  under  Wavne, 
Where  Turtle  and  his  bands 

Were  shattered,  routed,  slain. 

In  the  later  time  of  blood. 

When  Tecumtha  and  his  band. 
Proctor  and  his  redcoats, 

Were  ravaging  the  land; 
His  rifle  in  his  hand, 

The  bravest  there  he  stood, 
Not  behind  the  fort  walls, 

But  in  the  outer  wood. 

He  and  his  fellows  met 
Tecumtha  in  the  fight, 

Scourging  them  so  sorely, 
They  stole  away  in  flight; 

Away  to  far  Thames  bank. 
River  of  their  own  land, 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Where  Tecumtha  and  Proctor 
Made  their  last  battle  stand. 

The  redcoats  stood  a  minute, 

But  Proctor  fled  before; 
The  rifles  dashed  through  them, 

Where  they  fought  on  the  shore. 
Our  hunters  met  Tecumtha, 

Who  raised  his  savage  yell; 
Maintaining  fiercest  battle, 

And  fiercest  fighting  fell. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


TH;-.  SHAGREEN.  ' 

n. 

The  loveliest  of  rivers 
Was  crystal  Shagreen. 

There  the  light  ever  quivers 
In  silvery  gleam 

On  her  face  in  bright  shivers 
With  shadow  and  sheen. 

She  gathers  her  water 

From  fair  wooded  hills, 
Herself  the  bright  daughter 

Of  springs  and  pure  rills. 
In  cascades  they  leap  to  her, 

From  rocks  they  dash  down; 
No  stagnant  pools  creep  to  her 

With  stains  for  her  crown. 

No  dam  stayed  her  current, 

No  marsh  marred  her  side, 
No  bridge  spanned  her  torrent, 

No  mill  claimed  her  tide. 
The  barge  of  the  trader 

To  her  was  unknown; 
Nor  had  the  invader 

Yet  made  her  his  own. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Through  a  fair  valley,  turning,  winding, 
Winding,  turning,  trending  to  the  north 

The  bright  river  flows;  flowing,  finding 
New  beauty,  loveliness  new,  as  forth 

Her  rapid  shining  way  she  takes 
To  Erie  wide,  stormiest  of  lakes. 

And  ever  in  her  lovely  valley, 

Opening  from  the  lake-sea  south; 
There  first  the  sunshine  loves  to  dally. 

And  the  air  soft  comes,  as  from  the  mouth 
Of  summer;  and  through  the  teeming  land 

By  her  marge,  along  the  valley's  side,  , 
bpring  hastens  to  lead  forth  her  band 

Of  flowers,  flooding  with  her  tide 
Of  color,  fragrance;  flowing  on 
To  summer,  which  there  tarries  long. 

Luxuriant  there  the  ox-balm  grew, 

Burdening  the  warm  air  of  noon 
With  fragrance.    Wild  roses  took  the  dew 

Giving  odor  to  the  breeze  of  June; 
And  there  the  clematis  twining  threw 

White  along  the  bank  her  fringes  bloom. 
All  summer's  children,  mints,  and  wild  thyme, 
Sunflowers,  and  yellow  celandine. 

There  through  the  long  day's  lazy  hours 
Came  the  drowsy  drone  of  lab'ring  bees; 

On  flashing  wing  among  the  flowers 

Went  humming-birds;  and  mid  sheltering  leaves 

Rained  notes  of  song  bird,  gushing  showers 
Of  music  on  odor-laden  breeze; 


THE  SH AGREE X. 


Through  the  vale,  in  even'  nook  and  deli 

Some  bright-winged,  sweet-throated  thing  did  dwell. 

In  the  far  off  earliest  of  time, 

Ere  the  white  man's  foot  impressed  the  land, 
All  wood-haunting  things,  each  in  its  kind, 

Fearless  came  to  the  bright  river's  strand; 
The  tender  ones  knowing  when  to  find 

It  free  from  peril  of  prowling  band. 
Boldly  came  the  graceful  doe  to  drink, 
By  her  side  her  fa^^-n,  led  to  the  brink. 

All  the  red  hunters  wandering  wide. 
That  fair  vaUey  saw  with  longing  eyes; 

Envying  such  as  might  there  abide; 
Deeming  it  an  earthly  paradise; 

With  ^^ig^vam,  canoe  in  which  to  glide 
O'er  the  river  bright  'neath  summer  skies, 

Teeming  earth,  sun,  stream,  rare  hunting-ground, 

Fish,  game,  ease,  where  plenty  did  abound. 

The  warrrior  there  his  wigAvam  set, 

His  squaw  secure  reared  her  beans  and  corn, 

And  pappoose.    The  dusky  maiden  met 
Her  lover,  while  yet  the  sky  was  warm; 

just  as  the  flowers  with  dew  were  wet 
And  twilight  lent  her  weird  cliarm; 

And  from  the  thicket  the  whip-poor-will 

Sent  forth  his  note's  mysterious  thrill. 

Ere  the  war  the  red  men  stole  away  ; 

The  vale  was  a  human  solitude; 
Camps  deserted,  in  the  sunshine  lay, 

Empty  and  silent  the  wigwams  stood. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


The  sand  bore  no  print  of  Indian  foot; 

There  on  the  strand  lay  his  unused  boat; 
Nor  hunter,  nor  squaw,  or  Indian  child. 
Ever  saw  again  that  valley  wild. 


THE  SHAGREEX. 


III. 

INDIAN  SPRING. 

There  is  a  lovely  Indian  spring, 

Where  one  would  gladly  sit  and  sing 

In  the  shade  an  idle  song 

Through  the  hours  the  live  da\-  long. 

Itself  the  thing  hath  taught  to  bring 

Its  waters  with  sweet  murmuring, 

With  sad'ning  notes  that  do  complain. 

And  mingled  is  a  mirthful  strain, 

As  from  the  cave  its  waters  run 

From  darkness  to  the  morning  sun. 

In  ripples  bright  to  golden  day, 

W^ith  their  soft,  liquid  voices. 

Leaping  on  tneir  shining  way. 

To  the  broad  and  flowing  river, 

W^here  the  sunbeams  dance  and  quiver 

And  all  the  valley  bright  rejoices. 

There  lay  the  Indian  woman's  field, 

Whose  generous  soil  made  ample  yield 

To  tillage  scant;  and  there  still  twine 

Her  gourds,  and  there  her  wild  grapes  cli 

And  ripen  their  dewy  clusters 

In  azure  and  blooming  lustres. 

On  elm  the  golden  oriole, 

From  pensile  bough  her  woven  nest 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Hangs  in  the  sun,  and  there  the  soul 
Of  her  mate  floats  down  to  "her  breast 
In  pearl-hke  notes.    There  comes  the  gush 
From  the  throat  of  the  hermit  thrush. 
When  he  sings  the  wild  woods  hush. 
Here  to  this  favored,  lovely  spot, 
Our  hunter  came  and  reared  his  cot. 
Tecumtha  slain,  the  land  had  rest 
In  all  the  cabins  of  the  West. 
East,  south,  southwest,  the  battle  burned, 
But  to  our  woods  robed  Peace  returned. 
In  their  shade  tor  many  a  year, 
The  hunter  scout  pursued  the  deer, 
Hunted  the  prowling  hermit  bear, 
The  coward  wolf  slew  in  his  lair. 
Trapped  the  otter,  trapped  the  beaver. 
Speared  the  muskallonge  in  the  river, 
Shot  the  swan  and  shot  the  loon. 

Killed  the  wild  goose  on  the  wing. 
Slew  wild-cats  and  fierce  panthers. 

Tapped  the  maples  in  the  spring. 
There  our  fathers  found  him 
And  built  their  cabins  round  him. 
Their  axes,  the  falling  trees. 

Sorely  did  confound  hmi. 
They  frightened  all  the  wild  things, 

His  companions  only. 
The  men  there  in  the  greenwood 

Made  him  sad  and  lonely. 
An  ax  was  greater  terror 

Than  tomahawk  in  hand. 
And  choppers  were  more  fearful 

Than  a  hostile  savage  band. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


He  started  in  the  forest, 

When  'neath  the  ax  there  fell 
A  tree,  more  than  once  he  did 

To  hear  the  Indian  yell. 
The  smoke  of  settler's  cabin 

Sore  troubled  his  old  brain; 
From  his  opening  in  the  wood 

He  fled  awav  in  pain. 
Ever  and  ever  going, 

Forever  to  the  West 
The  living  tide  was  flowing. 

And  never  svould  it  rest; 
He.  never  could  escape  it, 

And  never  more  be  blest. 


20 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


PAUL  LYNN. 

There  came  one  day  into  the  wood 

A  stranger  youth,  of  bearing  high, 
Just  out  of  school;  of  lineage  good, 

A  smiling  lip,  a  laughing  eye; 
Showing  him  not  of  churlish  blood; 
Sparkling  gay  like  spring-blue  sky, 
And  something  of  the  uncommon, 
Alike  pleasing  man  and  woman. 

Broad-shouldered,  tall,  and  lithely  formed; 

Straight,  round,  and  slender  in  the  flank, 
His  upper  hp  not  yet  adorned 

By  the  gods  with  beard.    Manly,  frank, 
Nor  mental  gifts  had  nature  scorned 
To  give;  nor  spirit  bold,  which  shrank 

From  aught.  Since  red  men  fled  the  wood 
In  its  shade  no  such  form  had  stood. 

He  came  with  springy  step  and  free. 
With  rifle  armed,  of  latest  make. 
To  seek  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  elk,  panther,  whate'er  doth  take 
Cover  there;  and,  as  one  could  see. 
His  was  the  spirit  that  would  stake. 
On  venture  rash,  howe'er  it  rose. 
And  laughing  turn  to  face  all  foes. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


21  - 


In  hunter's  ways  he  had  no  skill, 

Wood-craft  to  him  an  art  unknown. 
Quick  eye,  true  hand,  and  steady  will, 

Patience  and  hope,  were  all  his  own. 
Some  man  he  queried  for  to  fill 

The  place  of  mentor,  and  was  shown 
The  way  to  the  old  hunter's  cot. 
As  of  all  men  the  man  he  sought. 

The  hunter  old  of  the  Shagreen, 

Xamed  Stead — "hunter,"  "trapper,"  "Scout  Stead" 
Called  by  men.    The  youth  straight  to  him 

Through  the  valley  journeyed,  and  said. 
In  manly^  way — "  I  am  Paul  Lynn, 
Come  from  the  East,  and  I  am  led 
To  seek  a  place  by  your  side,  till 
Something  I  learn  of  hunter's  skill." 

The  old  man  stood  at  his  cot  door, 

Where  western  trees  screened  out  the  sun; 
Heard  Paul  amazed,  as  him  before 

Stood  the  young  man.    So  bright  an  one 
He  had  not  seen,  and  o'er  and  o'er 

He  scanned  him.    Down  the  valley  lone 
He  turned  his  eyes,  as  if  he  sought 
Some  missing  thing,  and  stood  in  thought. 

"  Paul  Lynn,  you  said?"  "Yes,  Paul  Lynn."  "  - 

To  him  the  hunter — "  My  sister's  son. 
Died  'fore  you  was  born.    So  like  him,— 

I  tho't  'twas  'is  ghost.    Yit  that  one 
Was  dark.    The  chance  is  purty  slim 

For  game,  young  man.    Sence  the  folks  cum 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Somehow  the  river  seemed  to  tie  me, 
So  I  let  'em  scatter  by  me." 

Paul  smiled  to  hear  the  old  man  talk, 

Knowing  'twas  five  miles  to  the  door 
Nearest  him.    A  much  longer  walk 
To  the  next  one;  yet  o'er  and  o'er 
He  mourned  them,  as  is  they  did  balk 
Him  of  life.    Much  he  did  deplore 
The  falling  tree,  so  far  away, 
Which  thus  let  in  the  upper  day. 

The  woods  had  ceased  to  be  a  home, 
He  should  go  forth,  always  fearing, 
Far  from  the  river  now  to  roam ; 

Would  lose  him  in  smoky  clearing; 
All  the  wild  things  were  making  moan 
That  the  pressing  feet  were  nearing 
Their  deepest  haunts,  and  the  axe's  'd1( 
Was  laying  all  the  wild  wood  low. 

E'en  at  the  Cuyahoga's  mouth 

Near,  men  were  building  a  city. 
To  leave  this  valley  he  was  loth, 
Surely  'twas  a  monstrous  pity, 
But  since  Paul  came  they  could  both 
Go  farther  West.    There  his  ditty 
Ended.    There  was  the  Sandusky 
And  farther  on  the  bright  Maumee. 

Paul's  rifle  took  the  old  man's  eye, 
So  very  funny  seemed  the  lock. 

He  wanted  the  young  man  should  try 
Its  force,  and  showed  to  him  a  hawk, 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Sitting  against  the  bright,  blue  sky, 

Beyond  rifle  range,  the  old  man  thought. 
Paul  raised  his  rifle  where  he  stood; 
An  instant  it  rang  through  the  wood. 

\\'ondering,  the  old  man  raised  his  hand; 

Such  feat  of  rifle  could  no  one  tell. 
Sure  as  on  earth  his  feet  did  stand 

From  off  his  perch  the  fish  hawk  fell, 
Ere  the  rifle-crack.    In  the  land 

"Was  ne'er  a  thing  so  wondrous  well. 
Long  in  amaze  the  old  man  stood, 
Quest'ning  if  this  could  be  made  good. 

Looking  over  the  river's  brim 

At  distance  on  the  farther  side, 
He  saw  a  single  "  dipper  "  swim — 

Dippers  all  flint-lock  guns  deride — 
■"  I'd  like  to  see  ye  try't  on  him," 
Incredulous  the  old  man  cried; 

And  at  his  words  outspread  its  wing 
On  the  river,  a  lifeless  thing. 

"  W'elL  well,"  tliC  old  man  said; 

"  I  an'  ole  shell-bark  may  be  laid 
Aside  to  die  and  rust.    Xo  Stead 

E'er  saw  the  likes  o'  that."    He  made 
The  youth  welcome  to  all  he  had 

In  the  world.     "  O  we  will  make  head 
'Gainst  these  new  times.    I'm  real  glad, 
That  int'  the  thinin'  woods  you  come; 
An'  you  so  like  dead  Nancy's  son. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


But  that  'are  rifle  '—There  he  stopt. 

Words  had  no  power  to  express 
His  wonder;  nor  had  yet  his  thought 

Full  form.    This  youth  had  come  to  bless 
His  later  years.    He  came  unsought, 
He  and  his  gun,  in  his  distress, 
When  the  noisy  settlers  did  invade, 
His  forest  sanctuary  and  shade. 

Many  a  long  and  wand'ring  raid, 

'Neath  arches  of  the  forest  wide. 
Were  by  the  active  hunters  made; 

And  often  was  the  rifle  tried 
On  bears,  and  deer;  whatever  strayed 
On  hill,  or  plain,  or  river's  side. 
That  came  within  the  younger  eye 
And  rifle  range,  was  sure  to  die. 

But  not  so  quick  of  trapper's  art — 

Conceal  his  hand,  lay  hidden  snare, 
Allure,  decoy,  not  his  the  part. 

But  track  a  panther  to  his  lair. 
Strong  hand  and  quick,  and  bold  of  heart 
To  face  a  prowling  wolf  or  bear. 
And  strike  them  in  fair  open  fight. 
His  nature  was,  and  his  delight. 

And  daily  as  the  year  grew  wan. 

And  nightly  by  the  cabin  fire, 
As  more  he  saw  the  borderman 

The  younger  loved  and  did  admire. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


His  fame  through  all  the  forest  ran, 
And  thanks  were  his,  as  without  hire 
The  game  he  slew,  where  cabins  stand, 
He  laughing  gave  with  open  hand. 

In  the  valley  warm  the  autumn  lay,  _ 

Its  golden  steps  were  in  the  trees, 
The  eve  of  summer  was  the  day. 

And  in  her  arms  the  passing  breeze, 
Bore  from  the  trees  their  leaves  away, 
And  still  was  heard  the  hum  of  bees. 
And  smiling  ran  the  dimpling  river. 
Rippling  m  the  sun  as  ever. 

Millions  countless,  on  tireless  wing, 

Of  pigeons,  darkening  morning  air. 
Came  in  clouds,  themselves  to  fling 

In  storms,  through  all  the  forest,  where 
The  beech-nuts  dropped.    Each  gen'rous  pair 
With  them  their  stout-grown  offspring  bring;. 
In  smothered  thunder  they  rise  in  flight, 
And  wing  to  rest  through  coming  night. 

The  river's  breast  still  floats  the  swan 

In  stately  fleets.    The  wild  goose  there. 
Swims  secure,  and  still  at  dawn 

The  splendid  buck  comes  with  the  deer,. 
His  doe,  by  her  a  dappled  fawn, 
To  drink  the  water  cool  and  clear, 

Browse  on  the  herbage  rank  and  sweet, 
And  print  the  earth  with  dainty  feet. 

The  thickets  from,  the  mother  bear 
Leads  her  cubs,  to  the  bottom-land, 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Where  the  wild  plum  tree  golden  fair 
Ripens  its  fruit.    The  wolf  his  band 
Trains  for  the  hunt,  and  snuffs  the  air, 
Teaching  the  young  to  run  or  stand. 
All  through  the  wood  each  thing  with  life 
Makes  ready  for  the  winter's  strife. 

Long  time  dwelt  in  the  young  man's  mind 

Memory  of^the  wondrous  days 
When  a  pupil  he  learned  to  find, 
Of  forest  life  the  pleasant  ways; 
The  ways  of  beasts  of  every  kind, 
And  how  to  thread  the  wildest  maze, 
In  all  this  lore  a  student  apt. 
With  eager  heart  and  soul  enrapt. 

Pew  excelled  Paul  Lynn  on  shore, 

None  on  the  river's  swelling  tide, 
Tish  spear,  Indian  paddle,  oar 

The  bark  canoe  to  drive,  and  guide 
Whatever  craft  the  flood  up  bore; 
To  dart  into  the  flashing  side 

Of  muskallonge,  the  shining  spear. 

Few  men  could  boast  themselves  his  peer. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


WINTER  IX  THE  WOODS. 

When  winter  set  his  frozen  reign 

Triumphant  o'er  the  conquered  world, 
And  through  the  forest  shone  a  plain 

Of  gleaming  white;  and  southward  hurled 
His  ice  spears,  when  the  flowers  slain 
Lay  hidden  'neath  his  flag  unfurled. 
Then  binding  on  the  Indian  shoe. 
Paul  traversed  the  wide  realm  of  snow. 

Saw  Cleveland,  Erie's  future  queen. 

And  Painesville  on  her  river  Grand; 
And  every  cabin  where  a  gleam 

Of  light  shone  out,  in  all  that  land. 
With  his  rifle  he  oft  was  seen 
And  sometimes  'twas  an  ashen  wand 
He  bore,  as  through  the  forest  glades 
He  passed  upon  his  sylvan  raids. 

Well  armed  he  made  a  famous  drive 

'Gainst  elk,  pushing  them  in  flight. 
Through  all  the  day,  nor  ceased  at  eve, 

He  harried  them  through  all  the  night. 
A  noble  herd — twenty  and  five, 
All  might  he  slay,  but  in  his  sight 
They  looked  pitiful,  so  for  food 
He  chose — children  hungered  in  the  wood. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


The  elder  hunter  kept  the  traps, 

Cured  pelts,  kept  the  hut,  when  Paul 
His  degree  had  taken.    When  haps 
Befell  he  strode  out,  helped  to  haul 
In  the  slain,  filling  up  the  gaps 

With  pipe,  sleep,  tale  of  border  brawl, 
St.  Clair  and  Wayne;  of  frontier  life, 
Indian  forage,  and  scouting  strife. 

The  old  man  had  power  to  spin 

A  tale  with  all  the  magic  charm 
Of  minstrel  old;  so  thought  Paul  Lynn, 

Simple,  direct,  taking  a  form 
Rythmic — poetic.    It  could  win 

Him  ever,  as  th'old  man  grew  warm 
In  legend  quaint,  of  other  time, 
Having  of  eld  its  touch  of  rime. 
Strange  though  it  seem,  the  old  man  had 
A  Bible,  soiled,  and  smoked,  and  worn; 
His  one  book  cherished.    It  was  sad 
His  love  for  it,  battered  and  torn; 
The  dearest  thing  to  make  him  glad. 

Treasure  through  all  his  wand'rings  borne, 
Tho'  no  word  had  he  ever  read. 
Nor  his  father,  nor  brothers  dead. 
The  Bible  was  his  mother's  book. 

She  died  full  fifty  years  ago. 
She  read  it;  the  old  man's  voice  shook 

When  he  told  Paul  of  her,  and  so 
Did  Nancy's  son.    Paul  Lynn  took 
The  long  unread  book,  turned  unto 
The  first  yellow  page,  smoked  and  old. 
And  told  word  by  word  all  its  gold; 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


From  the  great — "'  In  the  beginning,, 

God  made  the  heavens  and  earth ' ' — 
The  wondrous  tale.    AH  the  sinning. 
And  wandring,  since  man  had  birth 
The  chosen  were  forever  bringing 

On  their  o^-n  heads  and  children,  dearth 
Of  evil  doing.    The  rapt  man 
Heard,  heard  eager,  as  the  story  ran. 

To  him  it  was  a  ston-  new. 

And  came  as  new  from  God's  finger. 
No  doubt  troubled,  all  was  true; 

Over  portions  he  would  hnger, 
And  asked  young  Paul  to  shed  the  dew 
Of  comment;  become  a  bringer 

Of  light.   So  trusting  the  young  head. 
Paul  asked  himself  for  hght  to  lead. 
'Twas  strange,  this  boast  of  his  college 

Going  into  that  forest  ^^"ild ; 
Giving  yet  receiving  knowledge, 

From  this  grand  old  untutored  child, 
"\Miose  heart  and  nature  in  the  foliage 
Of  the  woods,  like  Adam's  ere  beguiled . 
Arose  responsive  to  the  Hght, 
Seeking  a  hand  to  lead  him  right. 
As  on  and  on  the  lesson  went. 

Oft  untouched  his  traps  he  left. 
List'ning — ever  his  heart  intent, 

On  the  great  word;  his  soul  bereft 
Of  other  thought,  his  old  head  bent. 

To  catch  each  word.    The  night  was  cleft. 
And  through  the  night  as  through  the  da\ 
He  barkened,  nor  cared  to  turn  away. 


30 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Of  all  the  book  the  latest  strain 

The  tale  of  Mary's  blessed  son — 
How  he  bro't  to  the  world  again 

Life  and  hope;  he,  the  chosen  one, 
Took  the  old  man's  heart.    His  soul  long  lain 
In  darkness,  uprose.    When  'twas  done 
That  soul  went  forth  in  the  new  hght, 
Secure  from  out  its  ancient  night. 

The  long  cold  winter  went  at  last. 

Gathered  his  ice  spears,  hied  him  north 
Over  frozen  Erie.    His  blast 

Changed  to  a  softened  breeze,  and  forth 
The  high  sun  from  his  south  did  cast 
His  kindhng  rays  o'er  all  the  earth, 
CaUing  the  streams  to  wake  in  mirth, 
And  life  renewing  had  its  birth. 
And  one  by  one  the  happy  hills 

Threw  off  the  white,  looked  forth  and  laughed; 
Their  covers  ran  in  leaping  rills, 

From  all  the  cabins  children  quaffed 
The  sunshine,  heard  the  robin's  thrills, 
The  bluebird's  notes,  and  felt  the  waft 
Of  the  south  wind;  and  men  did  hght 
In  the  maple  woods  camp  fires  bright. 
In  the  wide  world  of  wood  and  stream, 

Came  new  forces  with  a  gush ; 
O'er  the  pasture  lands  flashed  the  sheen 
Of  verdure  new;  and  warm  and  lush 
Come  the  south  rain.    Then  the  Shagreen 
Burst  her  fetters,  and  with  a  rush 
Bore  them  from  her  valley  warming, 
Where  new  growths  with  life  were  forming. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Marching  March  marched  himself  away, 
The  soft'ning  skies  of  April  lay 
On  the  Shagreen  the  vernal  charm 
'Neath  which  her  limped  waters  swarm 
Her  face  with  ev'ry  bird  that  swims; 
Her  depths  with  all  that  oar  with  fins; 
There  the  great  sturgeon  made  his  way, 
In  schools  the  pike  and  mullet  play. 

The  muskallonge,  the  suckers  small 
All  upward  oaring,  each  and  all 
Eager  searching  where  may  be  found 
Instinctively  for  natal  ground; 
Oft  pausing,  turning  to  the  shore. 
All  the  small  branches  they  explore, 
Where  e're  shoal  water,  sand,  and  sun 
Give  opening,  they  are  sure  to  run. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


PAUL'S  FIND. 

When  the  twilight  deepened 

To  darkness  in  the  wood, 
At  the  river's  side  Paul  his  boat  untied, 

And  rowed  it  o'er  the  flood. 

On  the  jack  at  the  prow, 

Burnt  a  torch  bright  and  free, 
A  spear  in  his  hand  he  took  from  the  land 

And  all  alone  went  he. 

He  rowed  against  the  tide. 

He  rowed  him  to  the  south. 
His  torch's  light  lit  up  the  night, 

He  rowed  him  to  the  mouth 

Of  lippling  Sandy  Creek, 

Fully  two  miles  or  more. 
And  there  he  landed,  his  boat  he  stranded, 

And  stepped  upon  the  shore. 

He  stood  upon  the  shore; 

The  night  was  dark  and  chill 
Under  the  trees,  and  save  the  breeze 

The  wood  was  hushed  and  still. 

A  flaming  torch  he  took 

Of  crackling  hick'ry  bark. 
And  on  the  land,  with  spear  in  hand, 

He  stood  a  shining  mark. 


THE  SHAGREEX. 


Up  the  creek  he  took  a  step, 

Steps  he  took  but  three", 
When  by  the  hght  the  strangest  sight 

That  ever  was,  saw  he, 

A  maiden  passing  fair 

Redined  against  a  tree; 
Upon  the  ground  in  sleep  profound 

Or  in  a  swoon  was  she, 

Sure  never  did  it  hap 

To  errant  youth  before, 
Standing  all  bright  in  torch's  light, 

To  find  upon  the  shore 

A  maiden  peerless  sleeping  ■ 

In  the  wild  wood  alone; 
Her  dooping  head  'gainst  elm  tree  laid. 

That  o'er  her  sheltering  stood. 

Its  stalwart  broad  high  feet, 

It  reached  out  her  around, 
As  if  to  bless,  hold,  and  caress; 

There  her  the  young  man  found. 

He  stood  in  great  amaze, 

In  wonder  there  he  stood; 
His  torch's  gleam  Ht  up  the  stream, 

And  border  of  the  wood. 

Sure  it  must  be  a  dream, 

Of  sleep  a  vision  bright; 
He  cast  his  eye  up  in  the  sky. 

And  turned  him  from  the  light. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


He  looked  into  the  sky, 

The  stars,  up  through  the  leaves, 
Where  on  the  river  the  light  did  quiver, 

And  at  the  darksome  trees. 

Then  at  the  maiden  sleeping, 

There  in  the  savage  wild , 
Of  years  fifteen,  sure  ne'er  was  seen 

Such  sweet  and  winsome  child. 

Some  sad  and  sore  mischance 

Had  led  her  feet  astray. 
In  the  wild  wood  where  beast  of  blood 

Might  rend  her  life  away. 

Scarce  was  she  past  childhood. 
Scarce  touching  fifteen  years; 
And  on  her  face  were  traces 
Of  undried,  unwiped  tears. 
Scanty  seemed  the  garments 
To  save  her  tender  body 
From  the  chilliness  of  April, 
The  coldness  of  the  ground. 
O,  pitiful,  most  pitiful," 
Said  the  young  man,  Paul  Lynn ; 
Some  sorry,  sad  disaster, 
A  sore  misadventure 
Hath  led  her  feet  astray; 
Alone  in  the  great  forest, 
The  awful  wild  wood  savage, 
In  the  chill  night  alone. 
The  dark  and  earless  night , 
To  wander  lost,  bewildered, 
Till  weary  and  overcome 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


35 


She  sank  in  fatal  slumber, 

Here  by  the  dark  river, 

Left  in  fearful  keeping 

Of  the  wild  things  of  the  wood. 

Prowling  wolf,  nor  panther 

Hath  power  her  to  harm. 

Una  in  her  whiteness, 

Was  guarded  by  a  lion. 

Bless  the  precious  Father 

That  worthy  I  am  held; 

That  I  have  been  hither. 

Led  to  become  her  cheer. 

For  God's  love  to  save  her." 

He  dropped  his  shining  spear, 

On  an  old ,  moss-grown  log 

The  blazing  torch  he  placed. 

Tenderly  drew  nigh  her, 

Reverently  knelt  by  her, 

As  if  her  grace  seeking. 

Heard  the  murmur  of  her  lips, 

The  moaning  in  her  sleep. 

Restlessly  she  turned  her. 

As  suffering  in  her  sleep. 

Turned,  and  her  eyes  opened, 

Her  dark  and  wondrous  eyes. 

Looked  around  with  surprise 

Into  eyes  that  met  hers. 

Reached  him  her  small  browned  hand. 

As  instant  him  she  trusted. 

"  O,  I  dreamed  of  my  mother. 

Of  the  blessed  Lord  jesus. 

And  you  they  sent  to  me. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


To  save  me,  sent  you  here. 

0,  I  am  so — so  glad! 

I  tho't  that  I  should  die. 

I  was  lost!    I  was  lost! 

And  you  they  sent  to  me. 

I  am  so  glad!  so,  so  glad!  " 

Tears  gushing  from  her  eyes. 

He  gently  her  lifted. 

And  tenderly  supported. 

Chilled,  benumbed,  o'er  wearied. 

She  could  not  stand  unaided, 

And  further  she  explained: 

"  I  went  to  the  sugar  camp 

Of  my  uncle  Gilbert, 

And  when  I  would  return. 

Following  the  creek  up 

It  ran  the  other  way. 

So  I  went  the  wrong  way. 

Went  from  my  home  away. 

Went  and  went  and  never 

Came  I  to  our  cabin; 

But  wandered  like  the  children 

In  the  pitiful  old  story, 

1,  a  great  foolish  baby." 
Here  came  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  I  called  and  called;  none  heard  me. 
Dared  not  call  very  loud — 
The  dark  night  hath  no  ears, 
Is  huge  and  full  of  darkness 
Filled  with  trees,  filled  with  brooks. 
I  cried,  none  came  to  me; 
And  on  and  on  I  wandered, 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Keeping  ever  by  the  creek; 

Praying  God  and  jesus, 

Calling  my  dead  mother 

Till  I  came  to  this  river, 

Cold  and  dark  and  awful , 

It  sent  through  me  a  chill, 

When  in  a  swoon  I  fell. 

I  woke  chilled  and  hopeless, 

Dragged  me  to  this  old  tree, 

Old  tree  strong  and  lovely, 

And  laid  me  down  to  die. 

I  pulled  my  skirts  round  me, 

And  said,  Now  I  lay  me 

Down  to  die. "    She  was  o'er  come; 

Stood  trembling  with  a  chill 

In  the  arms  of  Paul  Lynn, 

Who  shed  tears  as  she  did. 

"Gilbert,  That's  miles  away. 

We  will  go  to  Indian  Spring; 

There's  an  old  hunter  there. 

Will  give  you  warm  shelter." 

"O,  you're  Paul  Lynn,"  she  said, 

And  as  she  could  not  walk 

He  took  her  in  his  arms. 

And  bore  her  to  his  boat. 

There  he  had  a  huge  robe — 

A  bear's  skin  the  center 

Set  round  with  pelts  of  wolves. 

Sable-trimmed,  lined  with  fur. 

He  had  oft  slept  in  it 

Bedded  in  the  dry  snow. 

Her  enveloped  in  it, 

Soft  in  the  boat  he  laid. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


His  own  cap  of  otter 
Placed  on  her  shining  head, 
Which  rested  on  the  gunwale. 
With  his  prow  turned  northward 
He  sent  the  little  shallop 
Flashing  down  the  river, 
Frightening  the  muskrats, 
Sending  down  the  torch-light 
Into  the  crystal  waters, 
Scaring  the  muscallonge, 
Making  the  huge  sturgeons 
Turn  their  filmy  fish  eyes 
Upward  to  the  flashing 
Torch-light,  and  the  oar-blades. 
The  maiden  in  her  fur  robe, 
With  Warmth  returning  to  her. 
In  a  pleasant  drowse  lay, 
Her  head  'gainst  the  gunwale; 
Her  eyes  unwinking,  half  closed, 
Saw  things  gliding  past  her; 
Saw  over  her  the  bright  stars; 
Saw  the  trees  come  out  in  light, 
And  fly  into  the  dark  night; 
Heard  the  geese  in  the  river, 
As  in  fear  the  wild  things  shy. 
Got  on  wing,  with  much  plashing; 
Heard  the  note  of  boding  owl. 
Heard  the  howHng  of  the  wolves. 
Nor  knew  of  that  the  portent. 
There  was  peace  in  her  child  heart, 
And  rest  in  her  weary  Hmbs; 
The  fright  was  past,  the  horror 
Had  died  out  from  her  heart; 


THY.  SHAGREEN. 


Christ  had  watched  over  her, 
She  was  foolish  to  be  scart. 
He  had  sent  this  lovely  being, 
Strong  and  brave,  to  save  her; 
And  whether  man  or  Avoman, 
She  did  not  think  or  care. 
She  had  heard  of  the  old  scout, 
The  name  of  the  5^oung  hunter, 
And  knew  that  this  was  him. 
When  they  reached  the  landing 
She  heard  him  call  the  old  man, 
Knew-  Paul  took  her  in  his  arms, 
Her  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
And  bore  her  into  the  hut. 
There  at  once  she  brightened. 
With  her  senses  all  awake. 
Could  you  have  seen  the  vronder 
In  the  old  hunter's  ej^es, 
W^hen  within  the  fuU  light 
He  saw  this  maiden  bright ; 
Had  she  been  an  Indian, 
A  nymph  of  the  green  wood, 
A  thing  of  air  celestial, 
Not  of  earth,  immortal. 
Of  dreamland  a  \ision — 
Of  these,  had  she  been  either, 
He'd  not  been  more  astonished. 
They  placed  her  by  the  fire. 
On  a  seat,  with  down  cushioned. 
As  she  had  been  a  princess ; 
And  all  their  store  of  dainties 
They  set  proiuse  before  her. 
And  left  to  her  to  choose. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


No  nymph  of  poets  singing, 

No  maid  of  lover's  fancy, 

Ever  made  such  havoc 

As  now,  this  maid  of  fifteen; 

This  precious  rescued  damsel, 

And  ne'er  was  love  so  happy 

To  see  the  loved  one  feast. 

As  was  now  blessed  Paul  Lynn, 

To  see  his  wiUing  pris'ner. 

Then  the  older  hunter, 

His  moccasins  adjusted, 

Drew  his  belt  tighter  round  him. 

Pushed  off  into  the  night, 

The  starry  night  and  chill, 

Through  the  darkened  forest. 

To  tell  the  uncle  Gilbert 

Of  the  maiden's  rescue. 

Stoutly  Paul  insisted 

That  should  be  his  mission. 

Stead  more  stout  resisted 

And  pushed  off  through  the  wold. 

Paul  mustered  all  his  blankets. 

The  canvas  of  his  sail-boat, 

And  formed  a  cunning  chamber. 

And  within,  a  Httle  cot. 

With  a  mattress  of  fine  hay, 

Fragrant  and  perfumed. 

And  on  it  the  fur  robe. 

And  there  the  tender  maiden 

L.aid  herself  in  slumber, — 

Sleep  blissful,  after  saying 

The  prayer  her  mother  taught  her. 

Who  can  tell  of  the  emotion. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


41 


The  gratitude  and  wonder 
That  stirred  the  soul  Paul  L_\nn 
As  he  thought  it  all  over; 
How  he  came  to  go  that  night, 
Go  out  upon  the  river, 
Go  up  to  Sandy  creek, 
And  land  upon  that  shore, 
And  find  there  this  maiden — 
This  rare  and  lovely  maiden, 
E'er  ill  could  come  to  her. 
And  then  he  knelt  him  down 
Upon  the  cabin  floor, 
And  his  joy  and  thankfulness 
To  God  he  did  outpour. 

4 


THE  HUA  TER  OF 


VII. 

NELL'S  STORY. 
When  the  notes  of  the  Oriole 

Came  down  from  the  tree, 
Forth  tripped  the  merry  maiden 

O'er  the  flowery  lea, 
As  beautiful  as  an  earth-born 

Damsel  e'er  coula  be. 

•She  lan  out  to  the  Indian  spring, 

Bathed  her  hands  and  face; 
-And  turned  she  then  to  Paul  Lynn, 

Saying  with  child  grace  — 
Answering  question  of  her  name 

Dimples  in  her  face. 
'"  I  am  called  Ellen  Maynard, 

And  Puritan  my  race." 

If  he  last  night  had  wondered 

At  her  loveliness  there. 
This  morning  as  she  greeted  him. 

The  sun-rays  in  her  hair, 
Her  heavy  hair  of  fine-spun  gold. 

Complexion  lily  fair; 
Her  supple  form  was  round,  and  tall, 

Winsome  her  girlish  air; 
Sure  on  land,  or  in  poet's  dream, 

Was  ever  maid  so  rare. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


43 


She  warbled  like  the  oriole, 

Her  notes  as  rich  and  glad, 
And  for  her  gush  of  melody 

The  same  good  reason  had, 
A  well  of  music  in  her  soul. 

Her  heart  it  had  been  sad, 
Had  she  not  sung  as  birds  sing. 

In  gush  of  happy  words; 
In  twitt'ring  notes  in  sparkling  play, 

As  do  the  happy  birds. 

She  ran  down  to  the  river  glad, 

Then  ran  back  to  the  spring. 
Where  Paul  asked  her  to  tell  him  more 

Of  the  unhappy  thing, 
That  happened  on  the  day  before; 

And  sent  her  wandering. 
She  paused  a  moment  in  her  glee, 

As  bird  prepares  to  sing, 
And  thus  it  was  her  story  ran, 

In  pleasant  murmuring. 

All  the  maple  trees  were  running, 
And  the  honey  bees  were  humming, 
And  the  pleasant  breeze  was  coming, 
Everything  was  just  as  cunning 
As  cunning  can  be. 

The  little  streams  were  flowing. 
The  little  flowers  blowing, 
And  all  the  sky  was  glowing. 
And  I  was  running,  going, 
Everything  to  see. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


"  All  round  the  woods  were  ringing, 
And  everything  was  singing, 
Life,  hope,  and  joy  were  springing, 
And  the  happy  days  were  bringing, 
A  wonder  and  a  charm. 

"  The  butterflies  were  flying. 
Their  wings  with  flowers  vieing. 
The  zephyrs  soft  were  sighing. 
The  earth  all  bright  was  lying 
In  colors  glad  and  warm. 

"  As  for  me,  I  went  tripping, 
I  could  not  walk  for  skipping, 
And  ever  I  was  flitting. 
And  constantly  was  sipping 

The  syrup  sweet  and  warm. 

So  bright,  so  short  the  day  did  seem 
It  flashed  away,  as  silver  sheen 
It  came  to  be  mid  afternoon. 
Ere  one  short  hour  had  come  and  gone; 
And  then  I  was  to  start  for  home. 
Our  cabin  stood  just  up  the  creek, 
And  on  its  banks  so  bright  and  thick 
Grew  buttercups  as  sweet  and  warm; 
And  other  flowers  lent  their  charm; 
I  never  thought  of  any  harm. 
In  walking  home  on  its  sweet  banks. 
On  which  the  tall  trees  stood  in  ranks. 
I  sauntered  to  the  shining  stream. 
Plucking  flowers  amid  the  green, 
And  when  on  its  bank  I  stood. 
And  gazed  into  its  rippling  flood. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


It  seemed  to  run  the  other  way. 
As  I  said,  not  from,  but  toward  home. 

I  tho't  'twas  strange,  but  did  not  stay 
To  think,  but  went  hurrying  on. 
Not  up  the  creek,  but  by  it,  down; 
Plucking  the  flowers  as  I  went; 
Picking,  culling,  only  intent 
Not  to  wander  from  the  stream, 

With  no  thought.!  could  be  wrong, 
But  onward  went  as  in  a  dream 

The  shining  waters'  banks  along. 
So  bright  they  sparkled  in  the  sun, 

I  turned  to  see  the  shadows  play 
On  its  current,  where  it  run 

Rippling  in  the  fading  ray 
Of  the  slowly  parting  light; 

And  I  noticed  that  the  day 
Was  almost  done,  and  the  night 
Was  making  in  the  dusky  wood. 
Around  me  was  but  solitude; 
Surely  I  was  almost  home  ! 
Then  I  walked  fast,  and  then  I  ran; 
Ran  until  I  was  out  of  breath. 

But  still  1  hurried,  hurried  on. 
I  was  scared  almost  to  death. 

As  I  thought  1  might  be  wrong. 
I  tried  to  think — that  was  the  way; 

I  dared  not  turn  me  and  go  back. 

If  I  had,  and  kept  on  the  track, 
I  would  not  then  have  gone  astray. 
But  I  was  lost,  bewildered,  lost. 
So  madly  lost  the  creek  I  crost; 
Yet  wandered  ever,  ever  down , 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Further  and  further  from  my  home. 

Wearied  I  grew,  but  did  not  stop, 

But  hurried  taster  on  and  on ; 

My  breath  came  hard,  my  head  was  hot; 

Wild  things  ran  past,  I  heeded  not; 

I  tore  my  clothes,  I  tore  my  hands; 

My  poor  feet  were  wet  and  cold ; 

I  cried  in  sobs,  I  was  not  bold 

Enough  to  shriek,  or  loudly  call. 

And  if  I  had  'twould  so  befall 

In  all  the  savage  forest  lands 

There  weie  not  but  prowling  bands 

To  hear  me.    Weary,  scarce  could  stand, 

And  all  around  me  came  the  night, 

I  scarce  could  catch  a  gleam  of  light; 

I  kept  near  the  running  stream; 

Its  murmur  heard,  as  in  a  dream. 

And  still  I  urged  my  weary  feet 

Till  I  came  on  this  bright  river. 
So  shining  now,  then  black  and  deep. 

It  gave  me  a  mortal  shiver; 
And,  as  I  said,  right  down  I  sank, 
Right  there  upon  the  lonely  bank." 
She  ceased,  nor  could  repress  her  tears, 
At  memory  of  her  woes  and  fears. 
And  Paul,  weeping,  by  her  stood, 
In  sympathy;  when  from  the  wood 
To  them  the  old  hunter  strode. 
The  tale  he  told  made  Ellen  weep; 
Her  folly  bitterly  did  she  chide. 
That  it  had  caused  distress  so  deep 
To  those  who  love  and  home  supplied; 
Since  in  childhood  she  was  reft 


TH^  SHAGREEX. 


Of  parents,  and  an  orphan  left. 

Her  uncle  thought  she  had  reached  home, 

And  there  the  ever  careful  aunt, 

As  home  the  maiden  did  not  come, 

Supposed  she  lingered  at  the  camp; 

And  it  was  far  into  the  night 

When  they  learned,  vnih  sore  affright, 

She  was  not  at  their  neighbor's  door, 

But  alone  in  the  awful  wood. 

With  prowling  beasts.    That  hap  no  more 

The  fair,  bright  one  who  long  had  stood 

Their  child,  would  see  the  morning  light 

Unless  the\^  snatched  her  from  the  night. 

They  iired  guns,  and  sounded  horns, 

And  rushed  into  the  forest  wild; 

Lit  great  fires;  made  loud  alarms, 

And  frantic  called  the  wand'ing  child; 

'More  beacons  lit,  made  more  acclaim. 

But  lights  and  sounds  alike  were  vain. 

Then  as  in  a  great  despair, 

Silent  they  in  darkness  stood, 
Risen  from  the  outbreathed  prayer, 

All  that  was  left;  when  from  the  wood 
Came  hunter  Stead,  with  flying  feet, 
God's  messenger  with'answer  sweet. 

None  e're  have  seen  the  dead  arise. 
None  have  met  the  shining  feet 

Of  God's  bright  ones  down  from  the  skie 
As  such  the  old  man  they  did  greet. 

With  rapture  wild  his  stor\'  heard, 

And     from  God  received  his  word. 
Tv.  as  yery  rare  that  htmter  Stead 

Was  in  a  settler's  cabin  seen. 


48 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Nor  rested  there  his  gray  old  head, 

Tho'  often  in  the  forest  green. 
But  there  reluctant  through  the  night, 
And  went  when  came  morning  light. 

His  last  words—  ' '  Ere  the  rising  sun 
Shall  climb  the  brightest  hill  of  noon, 

Paul  Lynn  will  bring  the  rescued  one 
To  you,  bright  as  when  lost  her  bloom." 

Then  through  the  wood  with  hunter's  stride, 
To  Indian  spring  the  old  man  hied. 

It  was  by  its  lisping  well 
The  hunter  told  his  tale  to  Nell. 

The  wierd  thing  had  kept  her  near. 
Its  liquid  notes  had  charmed  her  ear. 

And  listening  to  their  murmurmg 
She  declared  there  were  two  voices: 

A  tale  of  sorrow  one  doth  smg, 
And  one  in  low  mirth  rejoices. 

As  thus  she  spoke  of  glee  and  wail. 

Stead  told  her  an  old  Indian  tale 

Which  he  from  a  red  hunter  had; 

A  story  of  a  woman,  sad, 

A  little,  simple,  touching  thing, 

A  legend  of  that  lisping  spring. 

I  may  not  now  the  story  tell 

As  'twas  told  that  morn  to  Nell. 
'Twas  all  about  a  warrior's  wife. 

Who  in  the  forest  with  her  child, 
Found  him  there  bereft  of  life; 

Her  anguish  wails  in  accents  wild, 
Then  turns  to  soothe  the  tender  babe. 

That  answers  her  with  child  mirth  glad. 
Their  voices  ever  haunt  the  spring, 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Ever  and  ever  murm'ring. 
The  hunter  that  his  thirst  would  stint 

And  stoops  the  crystal  spring  to  quaff, 
Ever  hears  the  mother's  plaint, 

Ever  hears  the  pappoose  laugh. 
The  story  Paul  could  hardly  wait — 

That  morning's  meal  was  in  his  wish. 
The  hunter  shy  could  hardly  eat, 

B}'  Ellen's  side,  his  breakfast  dish. 
Excuse  he  made  to  leave  his  seat 

And  dainty  smoking  broiled  fish 
And  fragrant  coffee.  To  their  fare 
He  left  the  lovely  hungry  pair. 

The  old  man  drew  upon  the  shore 
His  largest  boat — made  all  complete; 

In  oarlock  placed  each  ashen  oar; 
That  famous  robe  spread  o'er  the  seat; 

And  when  the  pair,  their  repast  done, 
Came  laughing  out  in  morning  sun, 

He  called  them  to  the  shining  tide, 

And  o'er  the  little  shallop's  side 
Paul  Ellen  helped  to  her  own  place, 

And  seated  so  her  laughing  face 
Was  brightly  to  the  boatman  turned, 

Whose  iron  arm  the  water  spurned. 
Paul  at  her  feet  a  place  did  find, 
And  'gainst  the  gunwale  sat  reclined, 
Where  he  might  also  share  the  grace 
Of  gazing  on  her  lovely  face. 
Unconscious  of  their  pleasure  she 
As  simple  child  could  ever  be. 
He  was  so  brave  and  she  so  fair. 
As  in  his  eyes  he  held  the  pair, 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


'Twas  given  the  old  man  to  see 

The  thing  between  them  that  should  be. 

That  wondrous  thing,  that  could  not  fade, 
That  in  their  souls  should  never  die, 

That  when  their  forms  in  dust  were  laid 
Would  brightly  shine  m  upper  sky. 
Of  this  naught  came  to  Paul  Lynn's  thought. 

And  nothing  to  the  simple  child; 
His  eyes  her  face  contented  sought. 

From  shining  stream,  she  to  the  wild 
Wooded  banks,  turned  her  laughing  eyes. 
Greeted  each  bend  with  new  surprise. 
Sure  never  had  the  glad  Shagreen, 
Upon  her  sheeny  bosom  seen, 
Since  dimpling  in  her  mother  spring, 
Such  winsome,  bright,  and  lovely  thing 
As  she  who  rode  her  silv'ry  tide, 
A  youth  her  peer,  herself  beside. 
The  old  man  pushed  them  to  the  mouth 

Of  that  same  creek,  whose  tide  in  glee, 
Came  sparkhng  in  the  sun.    The  youth 

Pointed  Nell  to  the  grand  elm  tree, 
Spreading  and  tall,  between  whose  feet 
He  found  the  maiden  in  her  sleep. 
She  wond'red  that  the  place  was  bright; 

The  banks  seemed  to  her  wond'rous  high. 
Had  seemed  a  place  of  endless  night. 

But  beneath  the  morning  sky 
It  smiled  as  bright  as  could  be,    "  Yet — " 
She  stopped.    With  tears  her  eyes  were  wet. 
They  pushed  beyond  a  mile  or  more. 
And  ran  their  prow  upon  the  shore, 
And  Paul  and  Ellen  from  the  strand. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Clomb  their  way  to  higher  land. 
And  long  before  the  noontide  burned, 
The  maiden  to  the  loved  returned. 
Needless  as  hard  it  were  to  tell 
What  between  them  there  befell. 
To  Paul  was  it  given  to  see, 
That  in  that  house  of  forest  tree, 
In  Ellen's  Aunt  a  lady  stood, 
As  in  herself  were  marks  of  blood. 
It  was  a  long,  bright  afternoon. 

The  three  went  to  the  sugar  camp, 
To  Ellen's  uncle,  where  too  soon 

Came  the  hour  for  Paul  to  tramp, 
Across  the  wood  to  Indian  Spring, 
Where  Stead  before  the  boat  did  bring. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


VIII. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 

Of  all  things  human  it  is  strange 
The  power  short  time  hath  to  change 
The  course  of  life;  new  life  arrange. 
Since  yesternoon  a  simple  child, 
Tho'tless  as  child,  went  straying  wild; 
A  youth  by  equal  accident. 
As  sportsman  on  his  game  intent, 
Strayed  where  the  child  exhausted  lay, 
And  where  ere  morn  she'd  been  the  prey 
Of  savage  beasts  that  near  her  stood, 
Scenting  and  eager  for  her  blood. 
And  bore  her  out  to  life  and  day. 
Arise  from  this  whatever  may, 
Is  burden  further  of  this  lay. 

From  Indian  spring  to  Gilbert's 

It  was  surely  some  six  miles. 

'Twas  much  further  as  the  crow  flies, 

Which  seldom  in  a  right  line 

Wings  his  way.    Watch  and  be  convinced. 

All  the  long  way  (to  young  P.  Lynn 

Long  or  short  as  he  was  going 

To  see  Nell,  or  from  her  turning) 

Giant  old  trees  stood  in  tall  ranks; 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Grand  old  whitewoods,  splendid  maples, 

Lovely  beeches,  spreading  elm  trees, 

Tallest  ash  trees,  leaning  basswoods. 

With  great  hollows,  making  dens  for 

The  largest  bears ;  towering  oaks, 

Noble  chestnuts —Oh,  there  never 

Was  a  grander  wild  wood  forest 

Than  this_^pread  out.    With  the  great  tree 

This  young  Paul  Lynn  got  well  acquainted 

E're  June  came  round.    Hardly  a  day 

That  he  did  not  pass  them,  one  way 

Or  the  other.    The  simple  fellow 

Made  no  secret  of  his  liking 

For  the  maiden,  and  his  wooing 

Was  so  tho'tful,  for  such  young  man. 

That  the  good  aunt  saw  quite  plamly 

'Twas  his  nature.    Full  of  reverence, 

Great  forbearance,  all  the  more  so 

That  he  had  rendered  such  service 

The  child  unto.    To  him  it  seemed 

Like  seeking  pay,  so  he  never 

Sought  to  draw  her  from  the  presence 

Of  her  aunt,  who  fully  knowing, 

Fully  trusting  his  high  nature, 

Gave  him  license,  as  she  thought  best, 

To  take  Ellen  on  excursions 

To  the  river,  to  Indian  Spring; 

She  only  wished  they  older  were. 

Such  days  were  never  since  poets 

Of  Arcadia  their  legends  sang, 

As  these  days  were  to  young  Paul  Lynn 

And  Xell  Maynard.    Two  or  three  times 

Aunt  and  uncle  with  them  went. 


54 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Very  often  the  old  hunter, 

With  Paul  went  through  the  forest, 

And  his  Bible  Nell  read  to  him. 

Always  the  book  of  his  mother. 

Essay  several  times  the  girl  made. 

To  induce  him  to  permit  her 

To  teach  to  him  the  alphabet. 

And  so  master  the  Bible  text. 

It  was  curious  how  the  old  man 

Shyly  evaded  her  offers,  all. 

He  in  his  mind  thought  the  Bible 

Only  could  be  read  by  Paul  Lynn 

Or  Nell  Maynard.    That  in  his  hands 

Or  another's,  sure  it  would  be 

A  book  lifeless;  lack  God's  spirit. 

Which  he  devoutly  was  assured. 

They  breathed  upon  the  holy  word. 

So  it  became  oracle  living. 

In  his  own  hands  it  would  be  cold 

As  a  clod — dead,  dull,  and  frozen. 

The  new  world  of  love  and  brightness 

To  the  young  pair,  ran  on  with  June, 

Leafy  young  June,  month  of  roses. 

There  came  one  day  to  Indian  Spring, 
From  the  eastward,  to  Paul  bearing 
From  his  guardian,  peremptory, 
A  letter  curt  he  should  return. 
He  hemad  and  hawed,  walked  round  musing 
For  some  days.    No  help  came.    He  said 
He  was  commanded  by  message 
Which  was  binding,  he  must  return; 
Other  reason  gave  he  them  none. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


So  one  bright  day,  toward  the  evening 

He  stood  with  Xell  on  the  wild  strand 

Of  the  river,  near  the  elm  tree 

Where  he  found  her  that  night  bless'ed. 

There  no  kisses,  no  embraces, 

They  merely  held  each  other's  hands, 

Hands  clasped  closely,  nothing  more. 

No  vows  were  said,  these  words  only 

By  Paul  Lynn :    ' '  just  so  surely 

As  the  sunshine  shall  not  fail  you; 

As  this  river  shall  forever 

Running,  run  on,  run  forever. 

As  surely  to  you  will  I  come." 

Then  he  turned  him,  leaped  the  boat  in, 

And  Stead  rowed  him  down  the  river. 

Ellen  standing  on  the  landing. 

Looked  him  after  until  a  bend 

Of  the  river  hid  his  form  from 

Her  dewy  eyes,    just  at  the  bend 

He  rose  and  turned,  and  from  his  hand 

He  wafted  back  to  her  a  kiss; 

The  first  and  only,  then  he  vanished. 

She  then  turned  to  aunt  and  uncle. 

And  they  three  clomb  up  the  high  bank. 

River  leaving,  valley  leaving. 

Sad  and  lonely  in  the  shadow, 

Cold  and  lonely  in  the  twilight. 


PART  SECOND. 


IX  THE  HANDS  OF  THE  WORKERS. 

Very  strange  it  is  when  we  come  to  scan 

What  appears  the  scheme  of  this  creation; 
God  furnishes  things  in  the  rough,  and  man 

Works  them  up.    That  must  be  the  relation 

Of  the  two  in  this  joint  obligation 
Of  working  up  and  workms"  out  the  job. 

A  leading  race  brought  forward,  a  nation 
Is  built  up,  men  in  whose  race  natures  throb, 
The  genius  to  form  themselves  workers  fit  for  God. 

In  their  fitting,  training,  they  never  dream 

They  are  doing  His  work.    Men  toil  on,  blind, 

Xot  kno\\ing  what  they  do.    Some  petty  scheme 
For  their  own  gain,  narrow,  some  trifling  find 
That  carries  them  on  for  a  day,  their  mind 

Intent  on  their  own  purpose,  shrivelled,  small. 
But  really  do  God's  work  for  mankind, 

And  mankind's  owner.    Thus  for  both,  for  all; 

But  for  Him  finally,  who  doth  the  whole  enthrall. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


From  this  statement  general  one  may  draw 
A  subtler  meaning,  one  high,  refined. 

All  God's  first  handiwork  is  crude,  bitter,  raw. 
He  sends  a  skilled  workman,  who  pours  his  mind, 
His  soul  into  them,  and  at  once  their  kind 

Are  lifted  up,  perfected.    This  the  law: 

Take  the  dwarf,  hard,  sour,  acrid  crab-apple. 

And  behold  the  wonder,  wrenched  from  the  craw 
Of  nature.  With  what  e'er  man  doth  grapple, 
He  fights  and  surely  wins  for  God  and  man  a  battle. 

This  was  wrought  out  in  every  blade  of  grain, 
Grass,  plant,  fruit,  tree,  brute.    Whatever  did 

Man  grasp  with  his  mind,  there  was  made  great  gam. 
Where'er  a  rock,  a  clay,  ore,  coal,  lay  hid, 
Or  poison,  or  weed  grew,  there  man  was  bid 

To  touch  it  with  his  recreating  hand. 
Lifting  it,  till  no  useless  clod,  or  weed, 

Or  noxious  thing  should  cumber  all  the  land, 

But  in  the  great  procession  in  due  order  stand. 

The  huge  earth's  self,  whose  surface  man  doth  mar 
And  make,  lies  full  within  this  mighty  reach. 

There's  not  a  mountain  ridge,  wide  desert,  scar, 
But  as  man's  great  needs  his  mind  doth  teach, 
His  hands  strengthen,  his  soul  uplift,  shall  each 

Submision  smiling  bow,  till  over  all 

The  wide  domain  extends,  and  every  breach, 

Made  solid,  full,  and  strong,  in  the  great  pall 

Of  man's  lordship  over  the  earth,  under  God's  high 
call. 

Of  all  the  material  that  can  come 
From  God's  hand,  the  rawest  men  surely  are — 


THY.  SHAGREEN. 


5 


Abject,  savage,  abased;  yet  they  alone  i 
Can  be  to  angels  wrought,  pass  the  bar 

The  worlds  dividing.    'Twas  for  them  the  star 
Which  drew  the  the  Magi  from  the  East,  afar, 

Was  lighted.    Sure  none  shall  be  left  abroad, 
But  grace  to  man,  to  weeds,  to  the  great  clod 

Awarded,  and  all  in  time's  fulness  come  to  God. 

To  every  thoughtful  man  his  time  is  sad. 

To  us,  this  is  one  of  wide  backsliding; 
Faith,  foundations,  all  going  to  the  bad; 

From  old  truth  all  seem  downward  gliding, 

Nothing  in  their  places  true  abiding; 
All  the  old  garnered  stores  are  squandered,  lost; 

No  man  gathering  new,  all  men  deriding 
The  well-known,  grand  methods  of  gain,  God's  cost; 
Leave  all  things  in  a  wide  sea,  to  be  forever  lost. 

God  works  not  for  any  generation; 

For  many  ages  seemeth  not  to  care; 
Leaving  them  fallow  in  dead  stagnation, 

Rotting  with  certain  decay;  drifting  where 

Brood  death  and  darkness,  yet  surely  there 
Are  germinating  the  great  seeds  of  time, 
For  new  upiisings,  which  shall  bear  us  far 

Above  all  former  summits.    From  the  slime 
Of  dried  up  oceans,  spring  new  continents  sublime, 

God  vindicates  himself  to  the  ages; 

For  eternity  he  plans.    For  no  man 
Careth  He.    Mark  loss  and  gain,  the  slender  wages. 

Measured  by  time,  of  working  out  the  plan; 

The  eons  of  ages  of  this  work  scan; 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Ere  the  ever  changing  earth  did  attain 
Life,  and  from  this,  how  many  ages  ran 
Ere  men.    Partial  loss  and  greater  gain , 

Is  the  great  law  of  all,  and  ever  shall  remain. 


THE  SHAGREEX. 


11. 

TIME  AND  CHANGE. 

Five  years  may  look  short  or  very  lons^, 
Dependent  which  way  the  eye  is  cast. 

Time  is  lengthy,  to  one  looking  on, 
And  very  short  when  the  time  is  past. 

So,  measured  by  the  thing  to  be  done, 
Time  is  short,  or  as  if  never  gone. 

To  him  adjudged  a  day  to  die 
Time  is  an  hour  already  fled; 

Time  never  can  be  made  to  fly- 
To  him  waitmg  his  dav  to  wed. 

Five  years  given  to  change  the  earth 
Is  time  very  short  for  such  a  birth. 
Trans m.ute  a  weed  or  grow  a  State — 
For  a  lover  long  time  to  wait. 

My  reader  sees  Em  growing  quisical; 
Em  nothing  if  not  metaphysical. 

Five  years  have  passed  the  western  wood, 

And  made  it  less  a  solitude; 

New  cabins  planted  in  the  shade. 

And  here  and  there  new  openings  made, 

The  older  large,  and  larger  grown, 

And  backward  hath  the  forest  flown, 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


And  more  and  more  been  made  to  yield 
Place  for  the  settler's  stumpy  field. 
For  rough  the  process  is  to  view 
The  change  from  savage  old  to  new ; 
To  arts,  to  ways  of  civil  life, 
That  change  is  one  of  war  and  strife. 

The  forming  hand  that  would  improve 
Must  first  destroy.    That  is  the  law. 

From  the  sour  crab  its  limb  remove 
With  the  sharp  knife,  and  leave  it  raw. 
Until  within  the  bleeding  cleft. 
Is  placed  the  new  scion,  by  the  deft 
Hand  of  Art.    The  wheat's  tender  sheen 
Takes  the  place  of  forest  green, 
The  apple  follows  the  woody  race, 
The  white  lamb  takes  the  fierce  wolf 's  pla 
The  lowing  cow  succeeds  the  deer, 
The  lazy  swine  the  hermit  bear; 
Where  browsed  the  elk  now  feeds  the  ox, 
The  dog  IS  there  to  chase  the  fox. 
Only  through  destruction  dire, 
The  chopper's  axe,  consuming  fire. 
Already  roads  and  ways  are  made, 
And  bridges  rude  o'er  streams  are  laid  ; 
The  bright  Shagreen  herself  was  crost 
By  fords,  and  o'er  her  tide  was  tost 
A  bridge,  to  which  her  bed  of  rock 
Gave  footing.    She  hath  felt  the  shock 
Of  the  stone  hammer,  heard  the  shout 
Of  the  ox-driver,  sturdy  lout — 
Of  the  rude  workers  all— the  cry 
From  which  the  timid  deer  doth  fly; 
The  laughter,  oaths,  the  answ'ring  call, 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


The  axe  resounding,  and  the  fall 
Of  trees  upon  her  wooded  banks, 
Losing  there  the  stately  ranks; 
Her  waters  darkened  by  the  stains 
Of  broken  earth,  and  washing  rains. 


George  Gilbert  was  a  man  of  thrift, 

His  notions  were  all  sharp  and  clear; 
His  make-up  fibrous,  of  that  drift 

Of  men  wrought  out  for  purpose  dear 
To  God,  when  in  time  the  nft 

Did  open.    O'er  the  ocean  drear 
Did  hie;  the  hand  that  led,  did  sift. 

And  mould,  and  try,  till  did  appear 
The  pattern  fit,  men  to  make  and  lift 

To  higher  levels;  their  schooling  here, 
Perfected  for  the  special  work. 

Placed  on  New  England's  dreary  shore, 
Where  the  hard  tasks  no  man  could  shirk, 

Climate,  soil.  Indians,  till  o'er 
And  o'er  the  stuff  in  them  was  wrought, 

Hammered,  drawn  out,  compacted,  fused, 
Chilled,  hardened,  until  the  sought 

Form  was  found.    Oft  tried  and  used ; 
Somewhat  narrow — for  there  were  drills 

Needed;  sharp — for  there  must  be  swords; 
Condensed,  weighty — for  there  were  ills 
The  heavy  hammer  only  kills. 
Infused  all  through  and  over  all, 
The  forming  spirit,  and  the  pall 
Supreme,  the  awful  fear  of  God. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


'Twas  theirs  to  plant,  build  up  a  new 
Race  and  nation.    For  them  the  rod 

The  hammer  was,  until  the  true 
Fine  fiber  and  right  form  appeared. 

Ever  true  the  old  law  remains, 
Slow  its  movement,  its  process  hard; 
Partial  losses  for  greater  gains — 
This  is  the  price  we  ever  pay; 
Dark  is  the  night  for  brighter  day. 
George  Gilbert  was  of  this  new  race, 

For  such  its  life  school  had  made  it. 
His  its  soul,  its  form,  its  grace, 

Faults,  and  limits.    It  hath  laid  its 
Hand  on  its  children  for  all  time, 
And  eternity.    Of  this  line. 
His  wife  and  Nell  Maynard  true. 
And  neighbors.    Planted  dn  the  new  - 
Generous  soil,  wild  woods  of  the  West, 

Wide-stretching  plains,  great  rivers  free. 
This  type  of  men  attain  their  best. 
The  come  out,  now,  all  men  may  see 
Of  this  planting  in  Ohio's  land, 
Of  George  Gilbert,  and  all  the  band 
Of  his  race.    They  gave  her  to  stand 
At  the  head  of  the  Republic,  and 
The  heart,  soul,  fiber,  they  gave  the  State, 
As  they  made,  so  shall  keep  her  great. 
Of  his  own  state,  George  only  thought; 
In  these  five  years,  had  only  sought 
To  enlarge  his  own  little  world, 
And  backward  his  strong  hand  had  hurled 
The  wall  of  trees  that  round  him  stood, 
Where  he  had  made  his  footing  good, 


THE  SHAGREEN. 

And  never  thought  in  all  his  toil 
Of  minghng  man's  soul  with  soil; 
And  crab-apples,  things  in  the  raw, 
The  outside  form  was  all  he  saw. 

His  wife  was  of  a  finer  strain, 
Of  long  New  England  clergy  line. 
Of  culture,  soul,  and  fiber  fine. 

Traits  long  inherited  remain. 

Of  George's  thrift  she  was  the  soul. 

His  hand  strong,  rough — her's  divine; 
As  did  from  his  the  forests  roll, 

Her's  followed  after  to  refine. 

Save  young  trees  to  shade  the  spting, 
Plant  flowers  and  shrubs,  trail  a  vine, 
Throw  over  all  the  nameless  thing 
Which  woman's  hand  alone  can  flin 


THE  HUATER  OF 


III. 

SPELL  OF  THE  FOREST. 

Endless  the  goods  of  the  grand  old  wood, 

To  those  who  know  the  store, 
Hidden  in  its  peopled  solitude. 

Its  treasures  wild  explore, 
You  will  find  it  ever  doth  make  good, 
To  those  who  know  the  core. 
Its  charm  and  endless  variety, 
Sweetness  wild,  without  satiety. 

On  whom  hath  been  laid  the  mighty  spell 

Of  the  wood,  its  spirit. 
Drank  deeply,  her  wild  heart  knoweth  well, 

And  loves  to  draw  near  it; 
Her  flavor  her  pungency  can  tell. 
One  who  doth  inherit 

The  soul  and  life  that  there  find  home, 
Ever  longs  in  her  wild  ways  to  roam. 

Her  soul  subtle,  is  elusive,  shy, 

A  flavor  felt,  unseen. 
Yet  her  children  walk  it  ever  by  — 

Haunts  every  tree  and  stream. 
Giving  her  solace  to  all  who  fly 

To  her,  a  living  beam 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


To  all  her  dear  ones  who  live  therein. 
In  her  heart  no  evil,  shame,  or  sin. 

His  day's  task  done  the  border  boy 

Runs  to  her  with  a  cry. 
With  gun  or  rod  the  youth  with  joy 

From  the  cabin  hurries  by 
Her  margin  to  her  depths;  the  maiden  coy, 
]SIay  there  meet  lover  shy. 

Endless  resource  the  great  resort, 
Of  all  who  may  with  her  consort. 

Forever  in  the  heart  doth  Hnger 

The  spell  she  there  hath  laid 
Never  to  be  broken.    Her  finger, 

Writes  in  the  soul  that  strayed. 
In  nature  strong,  that  once  did  bring  her 

Devotion;  who  her  shade 
Hath  loved,  remembrance  never  to  change; 

Love,  which  nothing  ever  can  estrange. 

Rem.embering  I  sit  and  close  my  eyes, 

And  lo!  a  mighty  wood 
Tosses  its  green  billows  to  the  sky's 

Measureless  solitude. 
In  me  the  old  longing  doth  arise, 
Again  there  to  intrude. 

There  with  sister,  brothers,  raise  glad  cries 
And  shouts,  play  there  as  we  once  played, 
Its  children  wand'ring  undismayed 

Earth  no  more  can  bring  me  such  day. 

Memory  is  all  that's  left. 
Ax  and  fire  swept  that  wood  away, 


68 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


And  time  hath  from  me  reft 
The  loved.    Where  the  pioneer  held  sway, 

The  stranger's  hand  hath  cleft 

Their  homesteads.  The  loved  names  are  gone, 
Sculptured  their  burial  stones  upon. 

Now  Ellen  was  a  real  child 

Of  the  forest — that  is  to  say, 
While  she  was  not  so  very  wild, 

She  had  become  in  her  sweet  way 
To  all  its  subtle  charms  alive; 

Felt  in  her  pulse  the  weird  play 
Of  its  spirit,  knew  where  it  did  hive 

Its  secrets,  and  all  its  sweets  contrive. 

Stead  had  many  secrets  told  her 

Of  the  forest,  of  the  wild  ways 
Of  its  wild  children;  would  hold  her 

By  the  hour,  in  the  pleasant  days; 
And  she  had  many  sweet  places 

Wherein  she  held  a  sylvan  court; 
Dear  hidden  nooks,  where  the  graces 

Of  the  greenwood  seemed  to  resort. 

And  she,  this  Ellen  of  the  wood. 

Had  grown  in  beauty,  as  in  height; 
As  sweetly  wise  as  she  was  good; 

Swaying  by  the  unconscious  right 
Of  virgin  charm,  as  now  she  stood. 
Undreaming,  it  in  all  men's  sight, 
Of  maidenhood  the  paragon, 
Sweet,  simple,  tender,  brave  and  strong. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


A  subtle  and  elusive  spirit, 

Like  the  aroma  which  the  dew 
From  wood  foliage  doth  inherit, 

At  twiUght's  coming,  which  she  drew 
With  the  breath  of  wild  violets, 
The  fragrance  which  the  wood  begets, 
Breathed  from  her  lips,  surrounds  her  form, 
Like  perfume,  a  most  potent  charm. 

At  Indian  Spring  old  hunter  Stead 
Found  shelter  for  his  whitening  head. 
Years  have  bent  that  giant  form 
That  never  bent  to  foe  or  storm. 
He  keeps  his  gun,  he  sets  his  traps, 
Sometimes  kills  deer,  takes  water  rats. 
Sees  clearings  new,  new  rising  smokes, 
Xo  more  shuns  men,  he  even  brooks 
Them  at  his  hut.    Oft  to  Gilbert's  door 
He  goes,  and  talks  forever  o'er 
The  days  and  feats  of  young  Paul  Lynn, 
And  wonders  what  hath  hap'd  to  him. 
Shakes  his  old  head  and  heaves  a  sigh. 
Then  looks  away  with  dimming  eye. 
Four  years  before  there  came  to  him 
A  very  strange,  much  talked  of  thing; 
A  deed  of  all  the  Indian  Spring- 
Tract,  due  recorded  to  him  came; 
John  Westbrook,  the  grantor's  name. 
Save  that,  to  him  no  other  word. 
No  other  on  the  deeds  record. 


Strangest  of  all  the  old  man  thought. 
Some  others  also  thought  the  same, 
That  in  these  years  no  rumor  brought 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


A  whisper  of  the  young  man's  name, 
Since  that  hour  when  the  river's  bend 

Cut  him  off  from  Ellen's  sight. 
To  her  no  message  did  he  send, 
Token,  or  word,  however  slight; 

To  the  old  man  that  seemed  the  end 
When  that  sad  day  with  night  did  blend. 

Yet  ever  as  he  told  the  child 

The  doubt,  unrest  of  his  old  heart, 
For  answer  made,  she  brightly  smiled. 

As  in  his  fear  she  had  not  part. 
None  had  she.    To  her  was  given 

Love,  and  trust.    She'd  never  striven 
With  doubt.    Hope  and  faith  entire  one, 

Reigned  in  her  heart  and  soul  alone. 


THE  SHAGREEX. 


IV. 

NELL'S  FIXD. 

These  five  years.    Well,  five  years  that  June, 

A  very  funnv  thing  befell. 

I  That  is, — funny  enough  to  tell.  ) 
Late  it  \vas  in  the  afternoon, 
Near  nightfall,  as  I  remember  well; 

Twilight — which  the  Scotch  call  gloaming. 
Night  was  coming  in  the  wood, 

Through  which  Nell  had  been  roaming 
With  her  thoughts;  liking  solitude, 

Just  then,  and  half  a  mile  or  so 
From  home,  and  quite  near  that  same  creek. 

Thinking  of  that  time,  long  ago; 
The  forest  there  was  without  break; 
There  an  old  trail  its  way  did  take, 
Across  the  creek,  near  a  mire  place. 
Which  it  went  round,  making  a  trace 

Through  to  the  nver,  where  a  ford 
Gave  crossing^  to  the  other  side — 

An  old  road  leading  the  good  Lord 
Knew  ^vhere.    Xell  knew  it  to  the  tide 
Of  the  not  far  distant  Chagrin ; 
Walked  it  first  that  day,  wixh  Paul  Lynn. 
Well,  as  I  just  now  was  sa\ing. 
The  child  was  there  idly  straying, 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


When  a  curious  noise  she  heard, 
A  starthng  noise,  not  any  word 
Uttered  by  a  man  or  woman, 
Yet  certainly  it  was  human. 
It  startled  Nelly  very  quick. 

A  smothered-gurgling  cry  of  pain. 
Which  ended  in  a  long-drawn  groan 

That  frightened.    Then  it  came  again, 
Followed  by  a  distressful  moan, 
As  one  dying.    I  said  Nell  was  brave,  . 
And  also  that  she  was  alone. 
And  at  the  coming  on  of  night, 

The  blood  rushed  in  upon  her  heart, 
And  then  a  loud  clear  call  she  made. 

' '  Who  is  there, "  and  did  forward  start, 
And  on  the  bank  in  the  dim  light 

Saw  a  dark  mass,  as  something  laid. 
In  and  on  the  mire  place.    Her  sight 
Was  at  fault,  and  again  she  cried: 
"What  is  it?  "  and  there  to  her  came 
Response.    Then  she  knew  a  man 
And  horse  were  there;  the  man  involved. 
Both  sinking.    The  thing  to  be'  solved 
Was  his  instant  rescue;  and  Nell 
Saw  it  all — saw  the  way  as  well. 
She  picked  up  and  threw  much  green  brush, 
Thick  and  strong  on  the  miry  mush, 

Which  on  trial  her  did  upbear. 
On  which  she  bravely  made  a  push 

To  the  smothered,  helpless  man.  There 
She  raised  his  head,  and  freed  a  hand. 

But  had  not  strength  to  draw  him  out. 
Not  two  yards  on  the  bank  did  stand 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


73 


A  well  grown  sapling,  lithe  and  stout; 
She  sprang  to — dumb — and  with  her  weight, 

Bent  it  down  and  within  the  clasp 
Of  his  freed  hand.    With  the  might 

Of  both,  pushed  to  the  utmost  gasp, 
Thev  gained  for  use  his  other  hand. 

With  the  added  force  and  hope  anew, 

The  two  with  a  great  effort  drew 
Him  from  that  pit,  to  the  hard  land. 
Where  gasping,  strangling,  yet  breathing, 
Him  of  the  foul  mass  relieving, 
They  made  way  to  the  running  creek, 
Where  when  well  washed  he  could  speak. 
His  real  injuries  were  slight, 
Beyond  taking  vile  earth  and  fright; 
He  thought  he'd  seen  his  last  of  hght. 
Quite  soon  he  felt  himself  refreshed, 
Then  turned  they  to  the  horse  enmeshed.. 
The  small  tree  was  bene  down  again. 
When  with  halter,  and  bridle  rein. 
The  poor  thing's  head  was  made  secure- 

For  breathing;  all  that  could  be  done^ 
To  make  his  life  for  the  time  sure; 

And  then  they  left  him  there  alone. 

But  when  he  found  that  they  had  gone. 
Were  stealing  from  him  fast  away, 
He  raised  a  most  imploring  neigh. 
Ellen  turned,  to  him  ran  back, 
Patted  his  head,  and  kissed  his  neck. 

She  told  the  man  by  him  to  stay, 
And  she'd  bring  help  and  take  him  out. 

She  fiew  where  at  work  that  day 
Were  with  her  uncle  three  men  stout. 

6 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


— Well,  they  got  him  out. 
Sure  that  is  all  I  need  to  tell; 
Shouldn't  have  said  that,  but  for  Nell. 
The  man  was  washed  and  put  to  bed, 
The  horse  was  washed  and  put  to  shed. 
(Of  this  whole  thing  I'm  awfully  tired; 
Will  never  have  another  man  mired.) 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


V. 

JOHN  EXPLAINS. 

John  "West'orook  was  the  stranger's  name— 

Name  in  the  deed  to  hunter  Stead — 
From  Xew  England.    That  dav  he  came 

From  \\'arren,  through  the  woods  he  said; 
Crossed  the  river,  coming  that  way, 
Passing  the  creek  at  close  of  day 
His  horse  plunged  in— both  were  mired. 
Miserably  he  had  there  expired 
If  to  him  brave,  heroic  Xell 
Had  not  come.    Then  he  tried  to  tell 
His  gratitude;  and  did  it  well. 

A  middle-aged  gentleman, 
As  one  could  see;  well  made  and  strong. 

He  watched  XeU,  even,^  act  did  scan, 
Even,'  motion  and  look,  as  long 
As  she  remained  within  his  sight. 
He'd  been  shocked,  strangled — in  the  night 
He  had  a  fever,  then  a  chill. 

And  a  doctor,  when  came  dayhght, 
And  was  kept  there  quiet  and  still. 
Early  he  sent  off  to  Warren 
A  man,  who  took  a  letter  for  him. 
Next  day,  toward  eve,  a  youth  arrived. 

Nell  was  out,    ^^T^en  John  heard  her  come 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


(The  thing  John  VVestbiook  had  contrived 

That  these  should  reieet  within  his  room) 
He  called  her.    There  t!ie  hght  was  dim, 
Nell  came  brightly,  tripping  in. 
They  felt  each  other  more  than  saw. 

With  a  glad  cry  she  sprang  to  him; 
He  clasped  her  close,  as  is  the  law 

Of  love.    The  clasper  was  Paul  Lynn. 
She  was  the  first  of  them  to  speak, 

And  lifted  up  her  shining  head. 
With  the  glad  tears  on  either  cheek. 
'  O,  I  knew  you  would  come,"  she  said. 
His  heart  so  full  no  utterance  made. 
Save  tears  and  that  embrace.    His  heart 

Was  true  as  beats  in  man's  bosom. 
Men  are  true  as  women.    The  part 

They  play  in  truest  love  does  'em 
As  much  good  as  it  does  them. 
The  true  law  of  love — hearts  for  hearts, 
Women  and  men  are  counterparts; 
Yet  equal  halves  of  a  perfect  gem. 
Nell's  aunt  and  uncle  both  were  by. 

As  happy,  glad  as  they  could  be. 
Dear,  dear  soul!"  she  could  only  cry, 

Scarcely  less  blessed  than  was  she. 
She  turned  to  John,  and  with  her  eye, 
This  question  asked,  "  How  can  this  be?" 
John  Westbrook  sat  up  in  his  bed, 
As;glad  as  either.    This  he  said: 
If  there  was  wrong  in  their  separation. 

The  fault,  as  now  the  joy,  was  mine. 
Sure  I've  made  some  reparation 

By  falling  in  that  filthv  slime." 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Very  properly  he  paused  here, 
And  wiped  from  either  eye  a  tear. 
The  memory  of  that  beastly  mud 
At  that  blessed  moment  would  intrude. 

'  He's  my  dead  sister's  only  child; 

His  bachelor  guardian  was  I. 
He  largely  owned  this  region  wild, 
And  came  to  see  it.    Here  he  whiled 
Some  months.    You  know  what  happened. 
Answer  to  his  letters,  strong  and  long — • 
(Paul,  it  you  should  have  put  more  rough — 

Of  this  brave  and  glorious  Nell); 
Seemed  to  me,  well — hum — merely  stuff. 
(That  was,  you  know,  before  I  fell. 
Adam's  fall — not  to  be  hasty, 
Tho'  great,  was  not  half  so  nasty). 
My  reply  was  an  order  sharp 
To  return,  by  special  bearer  sent. 

He  daUied,  lingered,  but  did  start. 
Leaving  his  heart  here.    Well,  I  lent 

My  full  ear  to  his  story  wild. 
And  much  it  moved  me  toward  this  child. 
This  was  what  I  imposed  on  him  : 

Five  years  of  absence,  of  silence  five. 
If  at  the  end  there  was  a  glim- 
Mer  of  his  passion  yet  alive. 

With  him  I  would  go  to  this  West, 
And  if  I  found  the  maiden  true 
And  good  (Nell,  I  didn't  know  you. 

You  know,  then)  I  would  see  him  blest. 
I  made  him  stay  behind.  Alone 
I  came  to  see.    Old  stupid  fool ! 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


To  see  and  judge  this  peerless  one  ! 

So  blind,  I  tumbled  in  the  pool 
The  first  thing.    She  pulled  me  out, 
Like  that  venerable  John  Snout." 
Here  he  paused  and  feebly  laughed, 
As  he  thought  of  the  mud  he  quaffed. 
Well,  on  the  whole  I'm  rather  glad 

It  happened  as  it  did — mud  bath 
And  all.    The  tyrannic  uncle  bad 
And  badly  punished,  one  thing  hath 

To  ask.    It  will  perfect  Paul's  bliss. 
Let  me  now  see  you  join  your  lips. 

In  rapture  as  true  lovers  kiss." 
Those  lips  up  there  in  that  said  line 
JVIust  stand  alone  without  a  rhyme, 
While  each  lover  the  other's  sips. 

Then  they  sipped  the  aunt's  Bohea, 

And  sparkling  words  they  idly  spoke, 
Nothing  meaning,  mere  bright  bubbles. 
Filled  with  their  blessed  heart's  troubles, 
Which  gaily  at  the  surface  broke. 
I  declare  I've  lost  self-control 
Along  here;  also  of  my  lines. 
Up  there,  still  standing  the  good  aunt's  tea, 
As  any  one  can  easy  see, 
Cooling  alone,  in  its  small  bowl. 
Without  reason  as  without  rhyme, 
The  thing  has  happened  on  a  time 
Before.    My  rhymes  will  drift  apart. 
While  the  lovers  draw  near  each  other's  heart. 
(That  last  line  is  fully  ten  feet  long, 
I  must  manage  this,  or  cease  my  song). 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


VI. 

THE  WHIP-POORAVILL'S  SONG. 

Again  up  spoke  damp  John  Westbrook, 

Outspoke  very  strange  words  to  Paul; 
As  from  the  window  he  did  look — 

' '  Lo,  outside,  soft  the  moonbeams  fall; 
And  softly  breathe  the  airs  of  June. 

Go  out,  you  are  the  world  to  each; 
And  leave  me  here  to  sing  a  tune 

To  these  kind  ones,  so  they  may  reach 
Some  knowledge  of  you."    So  they  went, 
Not  loath  to  meet  John's  good  intent. 
Nell  wondered  at  the  shy  unrest, 
The  timid  coyness  of  ber  breast, 
The  tremors  sweet,  which  through  her  ran; 
As  her  heart  said  "  this  is  a  man." 
Before  he  had  seemed  half  a  child; 

A  girl-faced,  lovely,  hero  boy, 
Brave,  tender,  of  spirit  A\-ild, 

Given  lo  be  her  love,  her  joy. 
But  this,  avinle  man,  a  thing 
To  which  with  precious  fear  to  cling. 
No  not  fear — she  could  not  define 
Nor  tr}'  to;  more  than  half  di\-ine. 
Yet  of  the  earth,  unconscious  veiled 
And  to  remain  until  revealed. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


So  they  went  forth  to  June's  soft  air, 

And  were  themselves  the  glory  there. 

Whether  the  stars  were  suns  or  moons, 

And  if  birds  sang,  were  crows  or  loons. 

O  blessed  is  the  hour  of  earth, 

When  the  bliss  of  heaven  hath  birth. 

Then  and  forever  do  men  know 

That  what  lights  up  the  world  below 

Comes  h-om  heaven,  and  heaven  is.  „ 

That  is  the  proof  and  that  is  bliss. 

The  air  was  trembling  with  the  thrill. 

The  weird  notes  of  the  whip-poor-will, 

They  smote  out  with  cutting  crash, 

The  stroke  of  a  melodious  lash. 

That  cut  down  through  summer  leaves, 

Where  the  soul  of  night  plaints,  and  grieves, 

And  gushes  all  her  wild  anguish. 

Ever  doomed  to  'plain  and  languish. 

The  bright  eyed  thing  peeped  through  the  leaves, 

And  in  the  moon  the  lovers  saw; 
And  softer  his  wild  note  he  breathes, 

As  if  he  too  there  felt  the  law, 
And  as  his  strains  went  running  on. 
Something  came  into  his  song. 
"Whip-poor-will,  who  are  these 
Standing  there  'neath  the  trees  ? 
Whip-poor-will,  I  declare  ! 
Whip-poor-will ,  they  lovers  are. 
Standing  close  over  there. 
Whip-poor-will,  how  funny, 
These  humans  are  to  see. 
Whip-poor-will ,  it  was  bad. 
For  the  old  one  to  put  years 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Between  them,  years  so  sad. 

Whip-poo?-- Pa /(I,  full  of  tears, 

Whip-poor-Zi'ill;  I'm  glad  he  fell 

Whip-poor-John ,  into  the  well. 

Whip-poor-zvill ,  good  that  Nell 
Came  along,  so  brave  to  tell. 

Whip-poor-ioiU,  how  they  thrill  ! 

Whip-poor-will,  how  they  bill! 

Whip-poor-will  billing,  cooing, 
And  all  sort  of  that  wooing. 
Quite  well  they  are  doing; 

Whip-poor-will,  very  well. 

Whip-poor  Paul,  Whip-poor  Xell, 
You  are  safe,  I  will  not  tell, 

Whip-poor-will ,  to  the  moon, 
But  to-morrow  to  the  loon 
When  I  see  hmi  at  the  river. 
Of  the  kisses  he  doth  give  'er, 

Whip-poor'-zuill,  O  how  shy. 

Whip-poor-will,  by  and  by 
You  will  find  your  red  lips. 
Ready  give  as  take  clips. 

Whip-poor-will ,  Whip-poor-will, 
Now^I  will  fly  away 
To  my  mate;  then  our  flight 
Will  be  back.    Till  the  day 
I'll  sing  to  her  all  night. 
She  will  see  these  two  dear, 
And  we  will  watch  them  near, 
And  in  the  morning  light, 
Will  send  the  thrush  with  his  gush, 
All  things  hush  him  to  hear; 
He  shall  come  to  make  cheer. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Whip-poo r-rui  11,  and  good  night. 
Whip-poor  Paul,  whip-poor  Nell, 
Love  her  Paul,  love  her  well." 
Uncle  John,  he  sent  them  out, 

And  long  before  they  came  in, 
He  wondered  what  they  were  about, 

And  came  to  show  a  little  grim. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


VII. 

THE  OLD  HUNTER. 

Our  next  morning  at  George  Gilbert's 

Was  like  a  dawn  in  Paradise. 

Lovely  flowers,  trailing  vines, 

Round  the  large  cabin,  over  it. 

Over  the  tree  stumps;  the  short  grass, 

Sweet  and  tender,  in  the  sunlight 

Shone  hke  amber;  all  the  young  leaves 

Had  the  warm  tint,  which  true  artists 

Never  do  stint.    There  went  the  lazy 

Drone  of  bees,  already  laden 

For  the  tall  trees,  where  their  hives  were. 

The  air  was  freighted  with  perfume  , 

June's  sparkhng  air  in  full  goblets, 

With  hfe's  elixir  bubbhng  over. 

Every  grass-blade,  every  leaf-edge, 

With  great  beads  hung,  blazed  with  diamonds 

From  every  tree-top,  from  the  margins 

Of  the  forest  came  swell  of  song 

In  full  chorus.    Each  bird  singing 

As  if  compelled  to  his  utmost, 

Then  could  scarcely  himself  hear. 

From  the  wood  margin  at  first  light 

Came  hunter  Stead.    Paul  Lynn's  warning 

Had  reached  him,  and  this  morning 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


He  was  the  first  of  human  things 
That  stole  on  the  charm,  which  lay  warm- 
Lay  on  the  clearmg,  walled  with  trees. 
The  old  scout  still  having  in  him 
The  wild  spirit  of  the  forest. 
The  wild  stock  was  only  budded, 
Not  cut  and  grafted  the  second  year, 
But  when  full  grown  in  his  old  age, 
Some  sweet  buds  by  Paul  and  Ellen, 
On  his  old  shoots,  where  they  blossomed, 
Giving  fragrance  wild  and  pungent, 
Like  arbutus  under  dead  leaves, 
Under  white  snows  in  early  March. 
Long  in  the  margin  of  the  wood 
Stood  the  man,  the  old  world  viewing, 
To  him  so  new;  so  newly  planted 
In  the  wild  heart,  of  the  savage 
'World  of  Nature  old.    As  he  stood 
Thus  viewing,  the  subtle  meaning 
Of  the  All  Father  to  him  came. 
With  pure  rev'rence  the  old  hunter, 
As  in  presence,  presence  stronger. 
His  cap  hfted  from  his  gray  head. 
And  turned  him  back  to  the  wild  wood. 
As  if  of  that  he  was  a  part. 
As  if  his  moc'sin  did  intrude 
In  this  new  world,  to  God  nearer. 
Then  came  to  him  old  and  lonely, 
In  this  also  he  had  some  part. 
Though  not  of  it,  he  had  in  it 
Things  the  dearest  to  his  old  heart. 
Heart  old  and  withered,  till  refreshed 
By  God's  dear  grace,  brought  into  it, 


THY.  SHAGREEN. 


By  the  young  hands  of  these  precious. 

So  reassured,  he  went  forward, 

Noting  all  things,  each  sign  scanning. 

Of  the  great  change  he  saw  working, 

From  the  raw  world  of  God's  Nature, 

To  the  new  world  of  God  and  man. 

And  some  dim  notion  of  the  plan 

Dawned  in  his  old  heart — heart  of  child. 

Nature  he  saw  was  far  richer, 

And  fair  with  aid  of  hum  an  art. 

These  things  pond'ring,  great  things,  deep  thin 

He  went  on  noting,  where  tree  stumps 

Were  decaying,  making  rich  soils; 

There  'mid  their  roots,  still  did  linger 

The  wood's  children,  sweet  wild  flowers, 

Growing  stronger,  richer,  better. 

Higher,  larger,  b};-  chance  culture 

Thus  received.    He  also  noted 

How  gen'rous  nature  with  her  growths 

Made  speedy  haste  to  hide,  adorn 

The  ruin  wrought  in  the  great  change. 

This  he  pond'red,  thought  it  over, 

Felt  himself  a  ruin  hidden 

Felt  himself  beautified,  adorned 

By  the  hands  of  Paul  and  Ellen. 

To  him  Paul  Lynn  a  wonder  was, 

So  strong,  so  tall.    In  all  a  man, 

With  a  man's  port,  marked,  fine,  high  brow, 

So  strongly  cut,  head  borne  so  well, 

Yet  free  and  joyous  as  the  boy. 

And  when  each  by  the  other  stood, 

Paul  and  Ellen,  he  saw  how  each 

The  other  gave  completion,  added 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


To  what  before  seemed  perfection, 

Ellen  borrowing  much  from  Paul 

By  contrast  and  comparison, 

Yet  giving  more  than  she  received. 

The  prerogative  of  woman. 

John  Westbrook  a  sore  puzzle  was; 

He  the  man  was  who  gave  him  land. 

So  nominated  in  the  deed, 

On  which  he  could  keep  trees  growing, 

A  small  domain  of  wild  wood  green, 

Cover  for  deer,  all  wild  things  dear. 

A  mystery  'twas,  came  from  the  East, 

Whence  all  myst'ries.    It  was  a  man 

After  all  who  did  that  strange  thing. 

And  this  the  man,  before  whom  now 

He  was  standing.    Vaguely  he  felt 

That  something  from  him,  Stead,  was  due 

To  John  Westbrook.    He  stood  confused. 

Powerless  to  form  and  utter  speech, 

Say  what  should  be.    Forth,  laughing,  Paul 

Spoke,  making  plain  that  'twas  from  him 

Came  the  woods  and  streams.    Stead  asked  hi 

Where  they  should  go  when  he  should  cease  ? 

O  to  the  deer,  to  the  wild  things 

Let  the  forest  be  dedicated." 

Up  spoke  Westbrook,  naively  saying: 

To  Nell's  children,  dedicate  it." 

Then  shy,  bachelor  being,  blushed, 

Yet  not  so  red  as  in  Nell's  cheeks 

The  roses  flamed.    Paul  Linn  laughed, 

And  louder  George,  while  the  dear  aunt 

Kissed  the  girl,  no  wise  offended, 

Such  lodgement  made  this  in  the  mind 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


Of  the  hunter,  that  no  rest  came, 

Till  writing,  assuring  was  made. 

That  was  wonder  to  him,  also, 

A  rustling  page  with  strange  dark  lines 

And  his  proper  cross,  transferring 

A  mile  square  of  forest,  and  streams. 

Valley,  river,  all  that  pertained, 

To  Ellen  for  life;  her  children 

After,  forever.    So  it  ran. 

He  pondered,  wondered,  till  't\\as  clear. 

Then  had  the  old  man  great  content. 


THE  HUNTER  OB 


VIII. 

JUNE  DAYS. 

What  wondrous  days  were  those  June  days, 

They  can  come  but  once  on  earth. 
Old  Time  is  young,  and  himself  stays 

To  watch  over  the  new  birth, 
Between  these  hearts,  joy  sings  her  lays 
With  a  fresh  and  endu'ing  mirth. 

All  the  wild,  sweet  things  lend  to  them, 
And  of  their  treasures,  send  to  them. 

With  them  it  was  an  endless  now, 

Tiding  full  lipped,  enough  for  them 
Its  treasure.    From  their  glitt'ring  prow 
Its  drops  fell  pearls  back  to  the  brim. 
They  wanted  nothing  from  the  past, 

From  the  future  they  nothing  stole. 
The  lucious  now  was  in  their  clasp, 

Filling  the  head,  the  heart,  the  soul, 
And  so  joy  was  complete  and  whole. 

They  went  to  all  Nell's  forest  seats. 
Sanctuaries  some,  some  retreats, 
Some  were  walks  winding  through  the  glades, 
Some  where  the  stoired  religious  shades. 
Shed  down  a  deep  cathedral  gloom. 
Where  rose  arched,  the  mighty  dome 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


89 


Of  grand  trees  high,  and  dimness  made 
All  day;  where  snnbearas  never  plaved 
At  noon;  where  birds  did  never  sing. 
But  only  flashed  on  hasty  wing. 
She  had  seats  on  moss-growTi  banks 
Of  sunny  knolls,  where  the  taU  ranks 
Of  leaved  trees  a  sweet  pleasance  made, 

\Miere  the  hermit  thrush's  song, 
Came  throbs  of  music,  overlaid 

By  silence  all  the  live  day  long. 
"WTiere  the  wimpHng  creek  went  brawiing, 

Limpid  in  its  sparkling  stretches, 
And  on  land  and  stream  came  falling 

Recking  light  and  shade  in  matches 
Of  molten  gold,  and  lovely  bro"\\-n ; 
Stm-spilt  from  goblets  dripping  down. 
Dripping,  trickling  through  the  leaves; 
Fluttering,  fanning  in  the  breeze; 
Lighting  with  a  lambent  flame, 
Shrub,  plant,  flower,  where  it  came. 
On  pebble  white  or  mossy  stone. 
O'er  which  vraters  ^vith  laugh  and  moan. 
Ever  viith  their  hquid  voices. 
As  their  heart  is  sad — ^rejoices. 
As  sad  or  gay  currents  run. 
Ever  and  on  in  shade  and  sun. 
Often  here  did  Paul  and  Ellen 
Linger;  he  asking,  she  telling 
Hov.-  in  the  years  had  passed  her  hfe, 

Yet  ever  plainly  as  he  saw 
Hov,-  her  young  spirit,  eager,  rife 

For  companionship  did  dravr 
Largess  from  the  forest.    The  trees 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


Became  her  friends.  'Twas  passing  strange 
How  much  she  made  them.    By  their  leaves 

Shel<nevv  them— their  bark,  at  great  range 
She  knew  them.    Knew  all  their  names, 
And  loved  them.    They  to  her  alive 
And  sentient  were,  seemed  to  wave 
Welcome.    Tossing  their  leaves  like  manes, 
Beckoning  her.    The  birds  she  knew. 
Their  seasons,  when  away  they  flew, 
Their  notes,  and  where  they  built  their  nests, 
And  much  she  told  Paul  in  their  rests, 
He  asking,  when  no  more  she'd  say, — 
When  teased  would  color,  turn  away, 
He  told  her  how  with  him  had  run 
All  the  long  years,  what  he  had  done. 
Mostly  with  Fearne,  Coke,  and  Blackstone, 
He'd  spent  his  time.    All  much  drier 
Than  trees  and  birds,  the  things  by  her. 

One  day  down  to  the  bright  Chagrin, 
Down  that  old  forest  trail  they  hied. 
There  Stead  with  boat  awaited  them. 

And  they  went  floating  down  the  tide. 
It  was  a  wondrous  perfect  day. 

The  sun  with  stream  and  forest  vied, 
Every  bird  piped  his  roundelay. 
The  light  did  with  the  water  play, 
As  down  they  took  their  shining  way. 

There  where  young  Nell's  life  was  stranded, 
And  launched  upon  a  brighter  stream, 
This  sweet  morn  the  lovers  landed; 
There  standing,  to  them  it  did  seem 


THE  SH AGREE X. 


A  vision  of  the  past,  branded 
By  fancy;  a  strange,  precious  dream. 
The  old  elm's  trunk  Stead  had  banded 
With  clematis,  and  running  vine, 
Wild  roses  and  sweat  eglantine. 

And  so  down  where  the  Indian  Spring 

Its  waters  cool  doth  ever  spill, 
With  plaint,  as  there  a  prisoned  thing, 

The  sadness  of  its  breast  doth  trill, 
Not  all  sad,  but  at  times  doth  fling 

A  half-glad  note  of  older  song. 
The  Indian  mother  'plaining  still. 

The  soothed  pappose  low  laughing  on. 
To  Paul  and  Ellen  came  a  thrill 
As  they  stood  there  in  silence  long, 
In  silence  clasped  each  other's  hand 
Then  turned  their  mutual  eves,  and — 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


TX. 

ALONE. 

O,  dear,  my  little  tale  was  done 
Some  time  ago,  yet  I  linger 

Toying,  loth  to  depart;  as  one 
Who  would  gladly  have  the  ftnger 

Of  time  turned  backward.    The  singer 
At  least  is  pleased  with  his  own  song 
And  with  the  bright  ones  would  prolon 
His  idle  strains,  his  useless  stay; 
Ere  from  his  sight  they  fade  away. 
In  upper  sky  though  day  is  warm, 
In  wooded  depths  the  weird  charm 
Ever  wrought  when  day  is  leaving, 
Unseen  fingers  now  are  weaving. 
So  from  us  doth  fade  at  last 
The  present  to  the  storied  past 

There  came  a  day  in  this  same  place, 

For  which  some  other  days  were  made. 
I  scarcely  might  have  hope  of  grace. 

Did  I  leave  that  day  overlaid 
With  silence.    Each  lovely  face 

Would  darken,  leaving  me  in  shade, 
If  not  prolonged  my  simple  lay 

Until  the  light  of  that  blessed  day. 


THE  SHAGREEN. 


A  day  of  summer's  ripest  noon, 

And  at  the  noon  of  summer's  day, 
From  North,  South,  East,  and  West,  there  came 

Through  the  forest,  each  by  such  way 
As  he  had,  in  troops  or  alone; 

Most  on  horses — from  Cuyahoga, 
The  fair  young  city  of  Cleveland, 
There  came  a  bright  and  lovely  band. 

Fair  Burton  from  her  famous  hill, 

And  the  more  distant  Warren  sent. 
And  Parkman,  through  the  forest  still, 
Painesville  her  men  and  women  lent. 
All  trooping  to  that  Indian  Spring, 
Eager  to  see  the  wondrous  thing, 

The  peer  of  which  the  bright  Shagreen 
In  all  her  course  had  never  seen. 

Some  in  boats  on  the  river  came. 

Some  from  the  north,  some  from  the  south. 
There  was  a  town  the  river's  name 

Then  bore,  high  standing  near  her  mouth, — 
All  hurried  through  the  sun  and  shade, 

Gathering  in  the  small  area, 
Where  deft  and  ready  hands  had  made, 

Things  in  order  due,  to  see  a 
Noble  pair  stand  side  by  side 
And  lovely  Nell  become  a  bride. 

The  Indian  woman's  little  field, 

Which  the  sweet  grass  did  cover. 
Under  the  shade  its  space  did  yield. 

Fragrant  with  purfumed  clover. 


THE  HUNTER  OF 


And  many  flowers,  balm,  and  thyme, 
White  clematis  and  eglantine. 

There  was  the  sweetest  fairy  dell, 

Carpeted  with  soft  moss  and  grass, 
Where  cunning  hands  had  woven  well, 

The  bridal  bower;  thence  did  pass 
The  bride  arrayed  in  simple  white, 

With  her  groom  to  the  fair  place 
Assigned  in  all  eyes,  and  God's  rite 

Reverently  done,  with  the  full  grace 
Of  church,  'neath  sky,  and  in  the  face 
Of  the  dimpling,  shining  river, 
That  did  its  benediction  give  her. 

There  was  a  glorious  festive  hour. 

Of  joyous  words,  joyous  voices, 
And  laughter,  the  full  bright  flower, 

When  man's  heart  and  soul  rejoices. 
Then  the  westring  sun  did  lower. 

Through  the  high  trees,  and  all  was  done 
The  guests  went  off  as  they  had  come. 

And  Paul  and  Ellen  they  were  gone. 

The  gray  old  hunter  stood  alone. 

In  the  stilled  valley.    The  weird  tone 
Of  closing  day  was  coming  down 

On  the  bright  river.  There  were  none 
Save  shadows  with  the  old  man  thrown, 

On  memories,  that  long  would  thriU; 
And  through  the  valley  lone  and  still, 

Came  the  note  of  the  whip-poor-will; 
And  plaining  in  the  Indian  spring, 
The  Indian  mother  murmuring. 


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